#Regality and Strength (IC)

[witchywithwhiskey]

to save me from tears

pairing: DARK!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you thought you were going on a weekend getaway to the cabin of the guy were seeing, but it turned out bucky barnes had no intention of ever letting you leave. now, one year later, it's the anniversary of an important milestone in your relationship, and he knows just how to celebrate the special occasion.

warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), dark themes and elements, non-con/rape, abduction, drugging, imprisonment/captivity, sexual exploitation of reader, forced camgirl work, live-streaming sex, smut, rough sex, painful sex, unprotected sex, piv sex, anal sex, double penetration, oral cockwarming with a dildo gag, squirting, sex toys, bondage/shibari, sadism/forced masochism, ass spanking, degradation, objectification, dacryphilia, choking, breathplay, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (doll, winter slut), mind break, reluctant stockholm syndrome, reader passes out during sex, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, if i missed something please let me know!

word count: 5.6k

a/n: here's my second entry for @the-slumberparty's december daze challenge, using the prompt: Has it been a year already? my last fic was so sweet that apparently i had to balance things out with the absolute darkest, filthiest fic i've ever written. i guess i was feeling some type of way, idk!! anyway, i hope y'all enjoy ♡

december daze challenge masterlist

Frank Sinatra’s “Silent Night” played softly from a speaker in the corner, the chords lilting serenely through the cold basement, the choral harmonizing of the background singers becoming a soundtrack to the depravity you were forced to endure. 

It occurred to you that you might wonder how you’d ended up where you had, but you knew exactly how—you’d trusted the wrong man.

Bucky Barnes had been charming from the moment you met. The former army sergeant had wooed you with ice skating dates and trips to the book store, regaling you with stories from his childhood growing up in Brooklyn over cups of hot chocolate and herbal tea. 

He’d seemed perfectly normal, like the kind of man you’d want to settle down with, and you found yourself wanting to start a new life with him. It hadn’t been long, but you thought he was the one, and you began planning what that new life would look like in your own imagination.

Apparently Bucky had been determined to give you a new life as well, but he hadn’t given you a choice about what that life would look like. While you’d been picturing a cozy apartment in the city before buying a house and moving out to the suburbs, he’d been planning something much different.

It had all started that weekend in December, when Bucky had invited you for a weekend away at his cabin upstate. You’d been seeing him long enough that you trusted him, and you were excited, hopeful, even, that your relationship would deepen on the trip.

You were so happy about spending a whole weekend alone with Bucky that you didn’t think anything of the darkness in his voice when he’d warned you to never, under any circumstances, go into the basement of the cabin. 

Then, after a weekend filled with delicate kisses and gentle lovemaking, you’d been packing to return to the city when a soft cloth had covered your mouth and nose and you’d smelled something sweet. You hadn’t known it at the time, but that was the end of your old life, and you didn’t even have the time or the strength to fight.

You didn’t know how much time had passed when you’d woken up in the cold basement that would become your only home in the months to come. A thick leather collar had been wrapped around your neck, connecting to a chain that was attached to the heavy wooden frame of the bed you lay on. To your horror, you’d realized you were clad in lingerie that wasn’t yours, some cheap set that still managed to fit you perfectly.  

Bucky had been waiting for you to notice him at the foot of the bed, standing next to a camera aimed directly at you. 

“Welcome to your new life, doll,” he’d said, a depraved smirk spreading across his handsome face—and expression you’d never seen before. “Time to earn your keep.” His blue eyes had been glittering with dark excitement as he’d clicked a button on the laptop linked to the camera and crawled onto the bed with you.

That had been the first moment you’d seen the real Bucky Barnes, and he’d spent every day since then showing you exactly how vile and perverted he truly was. He’d kept you in the basement of his cabin and forced you to fuck him on camera, using the money he made from it to buy you more cheap lingerie and all manner of toys to use on your body.

The sharp, cracking sound of a palm meeting soft flesh filled your ears, the subsequent stinging sensation reverberating from your ass through the rest of your body effectively dragging you back into the moment of your latest debasement. 

The pain of Bucky spanking you with the full force of his strength only joined the other aches already living in your body—but you knew better than to complain or cry or whimper. You’d made that mistake early on, but Bucky had only seemed to soak in your pain like it fueled him. 

The first time he’d spanked you, you’d begged him to stop. Instead, though, he only hit you harder, grinning ear to ear while he’d told you that you had no idea what you were in for yet, fake pity dripping from his tone.

But in the present moment, your pain wasn’t only coming from Bucky’s palm. 

Your shoulders ached from the way your arms had been tied behind your back, your hands gripping your forearms and constrained by intricate knots of cords wrapped around your body. To further restrain you, your calves were tied to your thighs, leaving you bound and unable to move with your ass high in the air while your face was shoved into the bed.

In honor of the holiday season, Bucky had traded in the coarse rope he typically used for a long string of multicolored Christmas lights, one end plugged into the wall so your skin was washed in shades of blue, red, green and yellow. 

The string of lights was much more uncomfortable than the rope, even though that had burned. The wire holding the lights together was so thin, and the small bulbs dug painfully into your skin. If you didn’t know your discomfort was exactly what Bucky wanted, you might’ve let him see how unhappy you were with your current predicament.

Instead, you hid your face in the blankets of the bed, trying to focus on anything except Bucky’s big cock fucking into your cunt at a bruising pace. 

Unfortunately, it was impossible to ignore him, his hard length plowing into your body. Not even the cheery lights wound around your body or the Christmas music playing out of the bluetooth speaker in the corner could distract you from the feel of his cock inside you.

Another jarring smack resounded in the cold basement a brief second before the sting of Bucky’s spank quaked through your body. The strike was hard enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out. You didn’t want to give him that, even if it would’ve been muffled by the blankets under your face.

“How many times do I gotta tell ya, doll,” Bucky huffed, his voice patronizing and impatient, like he was talking to a misbehaving child. “Look at the camera when I’m fucking you.” He spanked you again, so hard you felt your entire body tremble under the weight of it, then he grabbed and groped your ass cruelly enough to leave marks. “Our audience wants to see your face—don’t ya, fellas?”

That last part was directed at the camera. You turned your head, tipping your face toward the lens just in time to catch the reflection of the rakish grin Bucky shot to whoever was watching. 

The chat box on the screen of the laptop set up just out of frame lit up, the audience for your daily stream with Bucky telling the both of you just how much they wanted to see your face while you were fucked by his fat cock. 

Your eyes caught a few of the filthy, degrading messages before looking away. You refused to believe the way your cunt clenched was in response to what you’d read. You absolutely were not getting turned on by the depraved life your captor forced you to live.

Bucky’s large body curled over your back, his hand wrapping around your throat and lifting your head from the bed so the camera could better see your face. The position shoved his cock even deeper into your cunt, ramming painfully against your cervix and, against your will, your face contorted at the twinge deep in your body.

The chat lit up, chimes dinging fast and furious as the messages came in, and Bucky reached for the laptop so he could read what your viewers had written. 

All the while, his hips kept grinding idly against your ass so his cock rubbed even harder into your cervix, making you let out a little whimper of anguish. His fingers tightened around the sides of your neck, enough to cut off your ability to breathe, and your whimper turned into a desperate, scared little keen.

You felt Bucky grin against your cheek, and you could’ve kicked yourself for giving him exactly what he’d wanted—a reaction. But at least his grip loosened, though you knew it was only because he didn’t want you to pass out too soon.

“The chat says you look like such a pretty little toy when I fuck you all tied up like this, doll,” Bucky cooed in your ear, grinding harder into your cunt. 

You sunk your teeth deep into your lower lip as your whole body trembled under the assault of Bucky’s thick cock. Despite yourself, you felt your cunt clench hard around his stiff length, wetness frothing and gushing from your hole as he made a mockery of your protests. 

Before you’d met Bucky, you would’ve sworn you didn’t like pain. You’d have said you hated it, in fact. 

But after so many days and months of being speared open by his fat cock, all three of your holes ravaged by his hard, unrelenting manhood in his need to dominate you, to conquer your body in every way possible, you couldn’t help your pussy’s response to it.

You told yourself it was some kind of defense mechanism, that your body had begun to react to pain the same way it did pleasure. It was the only explanation you could bear to endure. Because if you admitted you’d begun to like the way Bucky fucked you and abused you…

“Ohhh, listen to this one,” Bucky crooned excitedly, drawing you out of your thoughts and giving you a distraction from the way he was working your body toward its undoing. “‘Happy anniversary to the Winter Soldier and his Winter Slut!’”

The names were, of course, fake ones that Bucky had chosen to give the audience of your streams something to call you both. His was based on his past as a sergent, combined with the season when he’d taken you captive, while yours showed his ownership over you.

You hated it. You didn’t want anyone thinking Bucky owned you. 

But Bucky either didn’t notice or ignored the way you grimaced when he read the fake names aloud. He turned his eyes, filled with cheerful wickedness, toward the camera.

“Has it been a year already?”

The question was full of charm, and you could almost imagine it coming from the Bucky you’d originally met. The one who might’ve celebrated your one-year anniversary with a recreation of your first date, ending with a heartfelt proposal that the two of you move in together. 

Instead, the question hadn’t even been asked to you, but to the camera—to the audience of loyal, degenerate perverts who watched your streams. 

The quick, successive chimes from the laptop drew Bucky’s attention back to it, and he hummed in acknowledgement as he read through the messages. 

His fingers squeezed around your throat, making you choke harder for the camera, adding to the small sounds of anguish that were slipping from your lips while he kept up his merciless grinding, his cock bruising your cervix.

A new sound, one like a cash register, joined the dinging chimes of the chat message and your heart sank. 

That was the sound of people in the chat sending extra tips on top of the subscription fees they paid to get access to your streaming channel. It meant they were making requests for Bucky to do something new—and that never resulted in anything good for you.

Before you could glance at the laptop to try to get an idea of what was coming, Bucky sat back on his haunches, hauling you up with his hand around your throat. Between gravity and the change in position, it felt like Bucky’s cock pushed even deeper into your cunt, pressing against your cervix so hard it stole the breath from your lungs.

“It’s the one year anniversary of your very first stream, doll,” Bucky announced gleefully in your ear, using his free hand to slap at your tits. They were bound between two strings of the Christmas lights wrapped around your body, your soft tits highlighted by the shining, multicolored hues. “Do you have anything to say to our audience, my little Winter Slut?”

It was clear Bucky wanted you to thank them for their loyal viewership, but resentment held your tongue. Memories assaulted you of the very first stream you’d been forced to do.

Bucky had pinned you down on that very same bed, using nothing but his strong hands and large body to pin you to the mattress while he tore your cheap lingerie off your body. Then he’d ravaged you, slapping and groping your tits before biting them so hard you’d started crying. 

It had been the only foreplay he’d offered you before he’d shoved his cock deep in your cunt. He was so big and your body was so unprepared that you’d screamed, which only made Bucky laugh. He’d told you, mockingly, that there wasn’t anyone around to hear you scream—only the audience on the dark web where he was streaming your defilement for who knew how many people who were just as vile as Bucky.

Bucky’s fingers digging deep into the sides of your neck brought you back to the present moment, small gasps falling from your lips as he cut off your air again. Your pulse pounded in your head, but you still managed to notice that Frank Sinatra’s “Silent Night” had given way to another Christmas song, the festive music so at odds with the dread and fear pooling in your belly.

“I guess my Winter Slut is feeling ungrateful today, chat,” Bucky said on a laugh. 

His tone was mocking in a way that sent a shiver racing down your spine, and you refused to believe it might be anticipation. Your body quaked when his soft mouth brushed against your cheek, the gesture almost like a kiss as he turned his head so he could murmur in your ear.

“Our audience wants to see something special for our anniversary, doll,” he cooed. “They want to see me break you.” 

Unease and something else flooded your veins, the conflicting emotions warring for dominance as you struggled to make sense of the way your cunt had clenched around Bucky’s cock when he’d said he was going to break you. You pressed your mouth into a grim line, still determined not to show your reaction to Bucky or the camera, especially when you didn’t understand what was happening to you. 

In the year that you’d spent as Bucky’s personal cam star, you’d endured a lot—and if anyone had asked you, you’d have said you hadn’t enjoyed any of it. But over time, that had begun to change. You’d been fighting it, fighting your body’s responses to Bucky and every depraved thing he did to you. It was becoming so hard, and you were growing so tired of fighting, of pretending…

 “I have just the thing—but first, let’s fill this slut’s mouth,” Bucky was telling the camera, and you forced yourself to focus back on the moment to prepare yourself. 

Bucky shifted to the side, grabbing something from the basket of sex toys he kept next to the bed during streams. When you saw what he pulled out, you bit your lip against a helpless whimper.

He’d pulled out a penis gag, but it wasn’t just any normal penis gag—it was one he’d specially ordered for you. Instead of having a two or three inch dick attached to the strip of leather that would tie around your head, there was a full-sized dildo replica of Bucky’s cock. His big, thick cock.

You tried to keep your mouth closed when Bucky pressed the tip of the silicone cock to your lips, but he only tutted at you with a patronizing click of his tongue. Shifting his fingers from your throat to your cheeks, he dug them in until it hurt. Your jaw gave way.

“That’s a good little cock slut, open for your Winter Soldier,” he cooed patronizingly, shoving the fake dick into your mouth without preparation or remorse.

You gagged as the stiff dildo invaded your throat, tears beginning to flow from your eyes and spit dribbling from the corners of your mouth. Your arms yanked against the Christmas lights holding you bound, but that only forced them to dig deeper into your skin, making your struggle hurt that much more.

While you were distracted by trying to adjust to the silicone cock shoved deep inside you, Bucky secured the leather strap around the back of your head, tying it into place and making it impossible for you to do anything but hold the dildo in your mouth and breathe through the way it bulged in your throat.

Then Bucky was dumping you unceremoniously on the mattress and pulling his cock from your cunt, leaving you to fall face first into the blankets while he hopped up off the bed. You were thankful you could muffle your whimper at the loss of him in the sheets, even as you knew that whatever he had planned would be so much worse than him just fucking you while tied up and gagged.

“I was going to save this one for Christmas,” he was saying from behind a privacy screen beside the bed. It was set up to make sure the camera would only show viewers what Bucky wanted them to see—which was you, and everything he did to you. “But since it’s a special occasion, I’ll let you have your present early.”

When Bucky stepped back into view, your heart nearly stopped. 

A leather harness was strapped onto Bucky’s hips, a dildo attached so it hung below his cock. The contraption, which had clearly been specially ordered because you’d never seen anything like it, wasn’t what shocked you, though—it was the size of the dildo. 

The fake dick was easily twice the size of Bucky’s cock, bigger around and just as long. Staring at it with wide eyes, you genuinely didn’t think it would fit in any of your holes, no matter how roughly Bucky tried to stuff it in. But your cunt was between your thighs like it couldn’t wait for him to try.

Despite your dedication not to give Bucky or the audience any kind of reaction, you couldn’t help the, “No, no, no, no, no,” that came from your mouth. You couldn’t fathom the massive dildo fitting inside you, let alone you enjoying it, no matter how much your body warmed at the prospect of being fucked with it.

Your protests were muffled by the gag in your mouth, to the point that your words were indiscernible, but their meaning must’ve been understood because Bucky chuckled as he walked back to you.

“I know what you’re thinking, doll,” Bucky said conversationally while he climbed onto the bed and retook his place behind you. “There’s no way it’ll fit.” 

He grabbed the knotted string of Christmas lights where they crisscrossed between your shoulder blades, pulling your torso up off the bed so your face was level with the camera. You tried not to look at your reflection in the lens, your mouth split open around the dildo in your mouth and your eyes round as saucers, but it was hard not to stare at the look in your eye—the look of something like fear… or excitement.

“But that’s what’s so fun about it,” Bucky went on, dragging the hard length of the silicone dick through your dripping wet folds, coating the fake cock in the mess of wetness your body was leaking against your will. “It will fit—and it’s going to ruin your cunt.”

Once upon a time, you’d thought the same thing about Bucky’s cock. 

The first time you’d had sex with Bucky—before the cabin and the basement and the camera—you’d taken one look at his cock and whimpered in fear. But he’d been so gentle, promising you that he’d take it slow, that your pussy was made to fit his cock. 

He’d taken his time, kissing your lips and cheeks and all over your face while he worked his cock into your pussy, giving you another inch only when you’d adjusted to the last and relaxed in his arms. Slowly, and with what seemed like an endless amount of patience, he’d opened you up for him. 

That night, he’d made love to you in deep, toe-curling strokes that had wrecked you. He’d seemingly rearranged your body to be the perfect fit for his cock, and then he’d given you the best orgasm of your life.

No wonder you hadn’t stood a chance. 

More than a year later, the memory felt like a dream. It was so faded around the edges, aged by the months spent taking Bucky’s cock roughly, furiously, whenever and wherever he wanted, all while he streamed your debasement for the audience on the dark web.

“You’re going to be so loose that you won’t even feel my cock anymore, doll,” Bucky was saying as he dragged you back to the moment by thrusting his own hard length into your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. “You’ll have to beg me to fuck you with this massive dildo just to feel anything again.” He paused, chuckling to himself as he bent over you, pressing a kiss to your spine between your shoulder blades before murmuring darkly, “That’s your Christmas present this year.”

Then, without anymore preamble, Bucky sat up and pulled out. You didn’t even have time to beg or whine before he lined his cock and the dildo up at the entrances to your tight holes, then shoved both into you at the same time. Bucky buried himself inside you so deeply, so thoroughly, that it felt like he was pushing into the very core of your being, conquering your soul just as completely as he’d conquered your body.

The intrusion was so sudden, you never had a hope of preparing, and all you felt was the devastating sting of being stretched past your limit, the overwhelming ache of being stuffed full beyond what you thought your body could ever take. 

Pain eclipsed any semblance of pleasure you might’ve gotten from having both your holes stuffed full, and your eyes rolled back in your head, a piercing cry tearing from your throat. A white hot burn scorched through your body, and your mind went entirely blank, leaving nothing but depraved annihilation in its wake. 

“Oh fuck, fellas, she’s so fucking tight like this,” Bucky groaned, talking over your head into the camera. “I can feel the fake cock splitting her open—it’s making her ass so fucking tight.”

Humiliation and shame swept through your body at his words, turning the burn into something slightly more bearable, almost pleasurable. There was something about being ignored, being treated like nothing more than a fleshlight or a fuck doll while Bucky completely decimated your body that was so… 

You shook your head. No. You weren’t going to finish that thought.

“Fuck, I don’t know how long ‘m gonna last,” Bucky was grumbling, and you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or your audience.

The words should’ve sounded like music to your ears. You should’ve been happy the torture was almost over. Instead, you felt a pang of disappointment deep in your heart. But you didn’t have time to unpack what that could mean because then Bucky started fucking you.

His hips pulled back until only the tip of his cock and the dildo were still in your ass and pussy, then he plowed forward, shunting his entire length and the fat, massive fake cock into your holes once again. The pain of being split open was already starting to fade, an all-consuming pleasure creeping into the edges of your awareness against your will.

On Bucky’s third thrust, you moaned. 

Your mind was hazy with a mixture of pain and pleasure that was leaning more toward the latter, and with the cock gag in your mouth, you were helpless against the reactions Bucky was wringing from your body. The sound of pleasure slipped from your lips unbidden, and your face heated in shame, which only served to add more fuel to the fire burning through your body.

“Did ya hear that, chat?” Bucky crowed, slapping your ass painfully hard—hard enough that another muffled cry was wrenched from your mouth. “Our little Winter Slut is enjoying her Christmas present! She loves getting her cunt ruined, don’t ya, doll?”

He slammed deep into your body as he asked the question and you were powerless, incapable of doing anything but moaning obscenely for the camera, tears streaming down your cheeks and joining the spit that coated the lower half of your face. Long strings of drool and tears were hanging from your chin, dripping onto the bedsheets below.

Distantly, you heard the chimes from the chat log and the cash register sounds as messages and money poured in. They were coming so fast and so furious that you couldn’t even begin to fathom how much money you were making for Bucky while he broke you with his cocks.

Bucky must’ve heard the sounds too, because he doubled his efforts. He picked up the pace of his thrusts, fucking you hard and fast, spanking your ass mercilessly while his other hand still held you up off the bed by your Christmas light restraints. It meant that your face was framed perfectly in the camera frame.

It occurred to you that you should let your gaze drift off, let your mind retreat somewhere deep inside itself where you could hide from Bucky and what he was doing to your body. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the camera’s display panel.

There, you could see the scene Bucky had constructed—your body tied up in glittering, technicolor Christmas lights; your face covered in tears and drool, lips spread thin around the base of the cock gag; your throat bulging from the fake dick buried deep in your mouth; your tits bouncing between the strands of lights.

Behind you, with a look of deeply depraved joy on his face, was Bucky Barnes. 

He was naked save for the harness belted around his hips and the santa hat on his head. His big body was on display just as much as yours, his broad chest swathed in pale skin and chiseled muscles, his arms bulging as he held you up and spanked your ass. 

Bucky’s dark hair was falling into his handsome face, but the strands didn’t hide the merry grin on his lips or the way his blue eyes glittered with wicked delight as he stared down at the place where his cock and the massive dildo were brutally fucking your holes.

It was too much to watch your defilement. It was too depraved and too…hot.

God help you, but something must’ve finally broken inside you because it was so fucking hot to watch yourself be violated on camera while jaunty Christmas music played in the background and hundreds, if not thousands, of perverts watched Bucky have his way with you. 

Your pussy spasmed and clenched around the fake cock in your hole as you thought about those people watching you. It turned you on that the audience knew Bucky was fucking you against your will and not only were they doing nothing about it, they were taking their own pleasure from watching you be ravaged. Your cunt drooled even more.

Bucky Barnes had officially broken you. 

That was the only conclusion you could reach, because when you’d met him more than a year ago, you never would’ve imagined that your pussy would be creaming all over a fat, girthy dildo while Bucky fucked your ass and held you tied up with Christmas lights for anyone on the dark web to watch. 

But after a year of being fucked hard in every one of your holes, Bucky had finally broken you down until you’d joined him on his level. He’d torn away every ounce of shame, every bit of what had made you you, and remade you in the image of his perfect toy. You were a doll, his doll, just like he called you.

The realization filled you with a sense of peace you never would’ve expected, your body relaxing as your mind went blissfully blank. It was easier this way, you told yourself, as you breathed a sigh of relief. All that was left of you was Bucky Barnes’ perfect doll—his Winter Slut cam star.

Bucky must’ve felt or somehow sensed your submission because he groaned a filthy sound of pleasure and shoved his hips flush against your ass. He paused for a moment, his hand groping your ass possessively before pulling back and ramming home again, burying himself even deeper inside you, the massive dildo bullying your cervix as he pounded into you.

“That’s my girl, take your Winter Soldier’s cock like a good little fuck doll,” Bucky purred, his voice taking on a tenor of contentment you’d never heard before. It was like he was praising you for your submission, for finally giving yourself over to him, mind, body and soul. “You’re being such a perfect Winter Slut, taking me so good and crying so pretty for the camera.”

You preened under his praise, using what little strength remained in your body to shove your hips back onto Bucky’s cocks, fake and real alike, while you sucked enthusiastically on the fake dick in your mouth. Tears flowed harder from your eyes and you sobbed your pleasure, choked sounds of enjoyment falling from your lips.

You could feel the most devastating orgasm of your life building in the core of your being, and you were eager to chase it, knowing it would rewrite the fundamental fabric of your self. 

“Fuck yeah, doll, be my perfect little cam star,” Bucky rumbled, slapping your ass in encouragement, the sting of pain swirling with the pleasure he was wringing from your body and adding to the burning bliss scorching through you. “Show the chat how good my Winter Slut can cry for their money—show them how much you love feeling me ruin your holes for Christmas.”

Bucky rutted into you, pounding into your cunt and ass so hard that the clapping of his hips against your skin was filling the basement and almost drowning out the new Christmas song that had begun. It felt so good, so fucking good to be fucked and filled in every hole, that you were close—so close you could nearly taste it.

“Fucking take it, Winter Slut, take the only cock you’ll ever feel again,” Bucky growled, curling around your body and taking your throat in his hand. He squeezed tightly, grinding his cock and dildo into your body, so deep, you could feel them in your guts. “For the rest of your life, you’re gonna do nothing but take my cock and be my pretty little cam star—you’re all fucking mine.”

Something snapped inside you and you felt liquid gush between your thighs, coating the massive fake cock in your cunt. Your squirt sprayed down to soak the sheets beneath you, and all you could do was revel in the pleasure flooding your body, every limb trembling with the force of it while you gasped and cried around Bucky’s hold on your throat.

When he realized what you’d done, Bucky whooped with triumph, crowing into the camera that he’d made you squirt, that you were his perfect little fuck doll cam star. But you were too consumed by your oncoming release, which was barreling toward you with the force of a freight train. 

Before it finally hit you, and you came so hard your eyes rolled into the back of your head and you passed out, Bucky wrapped himself more tightly around your body, his chest pressing into your back and his arms wrapping around your front. He choked you with one big hand while the other groped and played roughly with your tits.

To your surprise, he brushed a kiss to your cheek in a gesture that felt affectionate.

“You’re making me so fucking proud, doll,” he cooed in your ear, and you thought, for a moment, that he sounded just like the sweet Bucky Barnes you’d met all those months ago. “You’re the best Christmas present I ever could’ve asked for.” 

Just then, your release slammed into you and you screamed—and there wasn’t anyone around to hear you except Bucky and his camera. 

Overwhelming pleasure washed through you, darkness creeping into the edges of your consciousness as your body convulsed and you choked on the dildo in your throat while your other holes clenched around the cocks that had split you open beyond your limit.

The last thing you heard before the weight of your release dragged you under was the festive synth pop chords of another Christmas song, and Wham! singing, “This year, to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special.” 

Somewhere inside you, you knew that everything was going to change once you woke up. Bucky had finally broken you, and you’d given him your ultimate submission. Nothing would be the same, but you found that that didn’t scare you as much as it once might have.

You belonged to Bucky Barnes and you’d finally accepted that as fact. He’d taken everything else, but you still had your heart left to give—and you were certain it wouldn’t be long before you gave him that too. Maybe, at least, it would save you from tears…

As you came so hard you passed out, you accepted that your thoughts, your pleasure, your mind, your body, your soul—your everything—belonged to Bucky Barnes. Then, everything went black.

december daze challenge masterlist

[snowballseal]

Guard Dog AU - Zayne

Summary: AU where you are the Foreseer, and Zayne is a human you've given your blessing to who has devoted his life to staying by your side, protecting you, and worshipping you. He would do anything for you. Anything.

Word County: 2744

Note: Sooooo, I went a bit feral with this one... Could be interpreted as very sub-like behavior for Zayne, but I feel like we all know this man just wants to worship his partner. So yah. I'll be writing similar au's for the other guys too, but this one might be my magnum opus.

Coming soon: Sylus / Xavier / Rafayel

Warning: Gets a little, spicy at the end, but mostly by implication. Reader likes to touch Zayne's face a lot. Someone calls Zayne a concubine and you get pissed.

Enjoy!

---

“Kneel.”

You stare, features a mask of icy indifference, at the human envoy wavering at the foot of your throne. They shiver in their thick coats, no material warm enough to keep out the biting cold of the Tower of Thorns. The biting cold of your glare.

Yet, still, they don’t kneel. You can see the hesitation on their faces, the pride flashing behind their irises. Humans. They always come, high and mighty, thinking themselves better than you, a demigod.

Your lips part, a scathing reproach ready on your tongue, but you don’t get the chance to correct their insolence.

“I said. Kneel.”

Zayne slams his staff into the polished, white granite. The sound of it echoes all the way to the far halls of the tower. The thinly veiled threat behind his words is unmistakable. Kneel before I make you.

The humans all crumble under the weight of his command. They drop to their knees, one by one, trembling at the pure contempt burning behind his gaze. Contempt for them and their human greed. They don’t even deserve to gaze upon the threads of your robes, let alone kneel in your presence, yet they think themselves above it? You may have mercy on their kind, but Zayne would rather cut them to their knees than allow them to show you such disrespect.

A faint smile ghosts across your lips. With the barest flick of your fingers, Zayne returns obediently to your side. He drops gracefully to one knee, head bowed, eyes locked on the unblemished edge of your robes.

It’s almost amusing, watching him turn so docile, so small for you. A man who conquers you in height and strength, who holds himself with the regal poise of royalty, who you’ve blessed with powers no man can dream of - a submissive guard dog at your feet. Ready to kill if you desire him to. Willing to die for you.

“Foreseer-”

Your smile falls away. Right, the humans. Eyes icing over once more, you turn your gaze to the envoy, regarding them with disinterest.

“What do you want, that you’ve come all this way and disturbed my peace?” Your voice rings like a delicate chime, but carries the bite of a frigid river. 

The one who spoke - a man dressed in expensive looking furs, his skin covered in a layer of sweat - flinches at the sharpness of your tone. He seems to steel himself for a moment, collecting whatever pathetic bravery he has gained from his comfortable life, and looks up at you with a determined glare.

“We’ve come here for a prophecy, Foreseer,” he starts again, voice muggish and demanding, “Our kingdom has experienced prosperity in the passing years and our king would like to be certain that it will continue.”

Zayne tenses beside you, his fingers tightening around his staff. You can see him fighting the urge to put this man in his place, his jaw drawing so taut it almost looks painful. Letting out a low hum, you reach out and brush your fingers through the dark strands of hair. A silent request. Zayne wavers, his breath faltering as all his attention falls back on you. 

Always on you. 

Your touch is gentle but insistent, your delicate fingertips tracing his temple, his cheek, his jaw. It leaves his skin tingling, pleasant and cold. It’s an addictive feeling and he can’t help but yearn for more. Zayne nuzzles into your palm, pressing his lips to your skin in reverent gratitude when you give him exactly what he wants, your fingers brushing more firmly against his face.

An uncomfortable cough breaks the silence, “Foreseer-”

“I heard your explanation,” you interrupt him sharply, a wave of frustration washing over you. Zayne can feel it, feels his own frustration at having your attention drawn away from him. But he doesn’t dare make that known, instead watching your face attentively as you speak. “And I will remind you that my prophecies will not be bound to your expectations. They are bound to nothing but fate, so I advise you to deliberate on what you are asking of me.”

“Our King simply wants to ensure that our prosperity will continue,” the man insists, as if you’re the fool who is missing the point. He levels you with a look of disdain, his eyes not so subtly darting to the hand you now have resting in Zayne’s hair. “Though I am certain now that our Highness would not care for the words of a mere oracle who keeps a concubine as her guard.”

The air in the chamber goes deathly still once the words leave his mouth.

Your eyes narrow at the man, glacier and even, but he keeps his chin held high. The rest of the envoy all shift, sharing uneasy glances between themselves. It seems even they know that what he said was a foolish mistake.

One should not anger a god so carelessly.

Slowly, deliberately, you stand from your throne. A flick of your hand and your own scepter appears from the air, the Creatio Protocore glinting dangerously from its tangle of wood. All eyes fall on it, a mix of fear and greed, all eyes except for Zayne’s, which remain glued to you.

Every step you take, every subtle movement, is controlled, the utter definition of grace. Even the air bows to you, shivering around your form, any remaining warmth fleeing from your presence. Tendrils of ice spread along the granite, creeping up the walls, covering the windows, turning the room into a prison of your anger.

And Zayne can’t help but watch, transfixed, adoration curling in the depths of his being. Because this is you, his goddess, his queen. He may be your guardian, but he is well aware that his title is by grace alone, and not necessity. You’ve never needed him. Not like this.

“You seem unaware of whom you speak to,” you murmur, patience tested and gone, “So let me remind you.”

The man lets out a yelp as ice suddenly grips his boots. You feel a flicker of satisfaction at the panic in his eyes, his confidence disappearing like a leaf carried away by the wind. His companions scatter back, looking on in terror as the ice travels up his legs, encasing the entire lower half of his body.

“I am the Foreseer,” you say, stopping a mere foot away from him. “The demigod of the Tower of Thorns. This is my domain, my home, and you are a pest. I owe you nothing. I owe your king nothing. As far as I am concerned, he is beneath me.”

“You insolent- He is our king!” The man spirts, turning a drastic shade of red. “I demand you show him respect, you despicable wi-”

A dagger presses deftly to the man’s neck and he goes silent, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

“Be silent,” Zayne snarls, “How dare you speak to the Foreseer in such a way.”

You glance at him over the man’s shoulder, brow flicking up. Any other time, it would warm your heart to see Zayne stand up for you, and you would gladly let him cross the boundaries of his position, to act as he sees fit. To act freely. But in this moment, all you can feel is the rage boiling in the depths of your soul. It’s your turn to show them their mistakes.

So you click your tongue, eyes narrowing, “I did not ask for you to intervene, my dearest.”

Zayne doesn’t miss the sharp disapproval in your voice, his breath catching somewhere in his chest. How thoughtless of him. Dagger slipping back into the sleeve of his robes, he forces himself to step back, head bowed like a wolf bearing its neck submissively.

“I apologize, my lady.”

You don’t offer your forgiveness, only giving him a stiff nod, and Zayne can feel his skin prickle with unease. Every fiber of his being aches, desperate to earn your affection, to please you, to offer an apology you deem sufficient.

If you want him to grovel, he will. If you want him to beg, he’ll do so until his voice gives out. Even if you want to punish him, he’d take it with such deep affection, because anything from you is more than he deserves.

But until you ask anything of him, all he can do is wait.

And currently, you must deal with the nuisance in front of you, even if you can feel Zayne’s laden eyes locked on you so intently.

“Now let’s talk about your king, shall we?” You muse, turning your attention back to the man. He swallows, regret showing in the way his hands tremble so viciously. “You humans have such a twisted view of power. Whether it’s money or prosperity or health. You are all subject to fate and that is why you hate my prophecy. Your king is no different, and I presume he’s looking for someone to blame when your land inevitably falls into poverty. In fact, I feel confident in saying he already sees it coming, and I would wager that he is the sole cause of it. Am I wrong?”

A low murmur spreads among the envoy. The man goes nearly purple in front of you, face tight with indignation, but he doesn’t dare utter a word, not with the looming threat of Zayne’s blade still nearby. 

You don’t need him to confirm what you already know, though. And you’ve had enough of this messing around. The day has been too long, and you desire nothing more than to rest.

“Tell your king that this mere oracle wishes him well in his remaining time on the throne,” you chime and turn to walk away. Your voice carries on over the clicking of your heels, “However short that time might be.”

“You can’t-! Foreseer!”

“See them out, my dearest, and then meet me in my quarters.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Foreseer-!” The man calls again, but Zayne doesn’t even allow him another glimpse at your figure. He’s lost that honor.

“I believe it’s time for you to leave,” he snaps, and breaks the spell of your ice.

The man immediately tries to make a run for you, desperation carved into every line of his face, but Zayne catches him by the collar of his coat and throws him back towards the rest of his party. His eyes set on them, harsh and cold, a sneer pulling at his lips.

“She has dismissed you. I suggest you leave quietly before you test my patience.”

“I will not listen to the orders of a-”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a sigil carve into the air before a blinding light fills the space. The humans flee from the sudden ice clawing at their feet, voices tight with panic, boots slipping against the granite in their desperation.

A faint smile pulls at your lips as you dip into a hallway. Zayne always has been good at scaring people away.

It’s a quiet venture to your room at the top of the tower after that. The howling gale outside is all you can hear, muffled by the thick stone of the tower’s walls. It’s a somehow comforting sound, soothing some your prickled nerves.

Still, you feel tense as you settle on the edge of your bed. Dealing with the humans always does this to you. That’s why you ended up here, in the desolate, snowy mountains, far from any village or kingdom. Dealing with them is too exhausting.

How many humans have come to you, begging for an audience, only to throw themselves into a rage after you share one of your prophecies? A prophecy you can’t control, you can’t change. Yet they always blame you. 

You can hardly be blamed for resenting their kind.

All of them except Zayne.

Your dearest. Your steadfast peace. The comfort of your isolation was no match when he came to your tower.

And your frustration melts like snow in the springtime when he appears at your door, wavering at threshold. Hesitation furrows his brow, his fingers twitching against the frame. Features softening, you gesture for him to enter.

“Come here, my dearest,” you murmur, tone impossibly gentle.

He hesitates for only a moment before sweeping across the room, reaching you with only a few long strides. You watch as he kneels at your feet, the thick fur of his robes gathering on the stone floor around him. And of course you notice the way his lips press together so vehemently, like he’s biting back something.

“Please speak, darling.”

Zayne’s eyes flutter shut, a shuddering breath passing his lips. You always say the term with such sweetness, such tenderness. It makes him feel dizzy and near breathless, loved in a way that makes his chest ache.

“May I touch you?” He asks, voice a low rasp.

You don’t even have to think to answer, “Of course you may, my dearest.”

With all the care in the world, Zayne gathers the edge of your robes in his gloved hand, drawing the silken material to his lips. His touch is reverent, like even the clothes on your body are deserving of worship. He takes his time, showering each fiber with devout affection, eyes slowly trailing up the material to gaze at you through ebony eyelashes. And you can’t help the way your breath falters so easily for him, always taken aback by the desperation, the hunger you find there.

Something dark glints behind those mottled depths at the sound. Slowly, experimentally he presses closer. When you don’t correct him, his fingers brush questioningly against your ankle, the warmth of his skin seeping through the leather of his gloves. And you’ve never been one to deny him.

Parting your legs, you let Zayne settle between them, your knees bracketing his wide shoulders. His fingers trace adoringly up and down your leg as he nuzzles into your clothed thigh, like a pup starved for affection. You can feel the warmth of his breath, even through the thick material of your cloak, and it makes your usually sharp mind spin.

“Please forgive my earlier thoughtlessness, my love,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing insistently against your inner thigh. “I will accept any punishment to atone for my actions.”

Gods, you never thought you would be so weak for one man. But how could you not be? How can you not crumble under such earnest devotion?

You’d freeze the world over if it meant having him forever at your side.

“You have quite the tactic for coaxing me to forgive you,” you breathe, reaching a hand down to trace through his hair. Zayne immediately leans into your touch, molten eyes soft with feigned innocence.

“I am simply a humble servant, unworthy of your favor, my lady,” he hums, eyelashes fluttering when your grip tightens momentarily in his hair. It’s only then a mischievous smile reveals itself on his lips. “How can I coax a goddess such as yourself to do something against your will?”

“You know full well what you’re doing, dearest.” You lean down, until your cool breath ghosts over his skin, sending a shiver through Zayne’s body. His bravado slips away, replaced by an uneven breath, his lips parting ever so slightly. “And there’s no need for it. Everything I have, everything I am, is yours, and that includes my forgiveness. All you ever have to do is ask.”

“You shouldn’t offer such things so lightly, my lady,” Zayne rasps, fingers pressing tightly into the softness of your leg as he forces himself to glance away. “You underestimate how selfish my desire for you is. I would take everything if you allowed it.”

Suddenly, your touch is on his chin, drawing his face back to yours, until he can feel the brush of your lips against his, taunting and delicate.

“If you want everything,” you challenge softly, gaze unwavering, “then take it.”

Zayne inhales sharply. And then his lips are on yours, kissing you so deeply, so tenderly, like he wants to draw the very breath from your lungs, like you’re the only one who can sate his hunger burning inside of him.

And you let him. You let him take everything he desires, because he always gives you everything you could ever desire.

That is how it has always been between the two of you. And that’s how it will always be.

---

This felt pretty different from what I usually write. I was inspired by an Xavier fic I read sometime back, and I just loooove the concept of truly feral levels of loyalty. And I love the idea of reader being just a feral for him.

Can't wait to write Sylus' 😉

[midnight-mourning]

Love Bites

💘💘Midnight's DCA Valentine's Day 8💘💘

Okay okay okay, back on track now, please enjoy this little diaster i made based on @divinit3a's yeti boys, it was, quite fun >:3c

Prompt: umm letseee... valentines...Typically the Sun is not Out.... (for... Reasons... ahah.) but----loves to hunt, and hunt for the thrill/sport/game of it. And loves to eat & eat & would love a properly cooked meal. preference to high protein meals, very rich, very tasty, salty & fatty. so Im sure if u wanted to tackle him, in particular, could have fun with that..... (Slaps a giant fish on the table. Token of affection. Totally Wont Eat You ) The Moon.......... is a lot quieter and subdued, but actually a far better caretaker. takes care of hurt animals; would probably take care of a hurt human, too. mmm hot cocoa. much pickier eater, he doesnt like much, and he doesnt like to eat meat.... I think overall, a 'meal together' would be the best valentines fhgjsdfghjsdf WITH THESE FREAKS IN PARTICULAR...

Word Count: 2907

Read here if you prefer ao3!

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

The hall is quiet as you step out from your room. You strain to listen for any sign of life, nothing. Must be out. Good. That gives you more time. 

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the shadowed hallway, not nearly as bright as your windowed room. Though, you weren't opposed to keeping the lights off. It saved energy for one—which meant warm floor beneath your feet as you pad through the facility—and two, it kept the not as friendly yeti from making an appearance. Which, yourself and Moon were both in agreement about at least. 

When you'd first gotten here, so many months ago now, your first encounter with the yeti, robot, thing—you still haven't quite figured that one out—was less than, pleasant. Though, that may very well have been due to the state he first saw you in. Which was bloodied, bruised, and vulnerable. And as Moon would later explain it to you, that had triggered something in counterpart. Something more instinct than logical. 

Luckily for you, a ragged chase into a darkened cavern had saved you from suffering any further injury, or worse. 

Instead, you got Moon, and he was thankfully much calmer than the other bot. He also wasn't trying to kill you, so you took what you could get. He patched you up, gave you a place to stay, a nice warm bed out of the cold, and plenty of things to do while you recovered. 

When you'd first ventured out into the snow, having heard the rumors of the 'ice devil' you'd be facing, this hadn't been what you'd expected. 

Delivish upon first glance, sure. Those tusks didn't help anything, that's for certain. Not to mention Sun as a whole, the manic energy he radiated, the wild look in his eyes, the raw strength as he'd pinned you down to "Try a bite"—

But still, with Moon at the very least, the rumors didn't match up. 

He was quiet, even a bit stern in certain cases, but polite. He took his directives very seriously, but beyond that, he held a compassion you wouldn't ever have expected of a machine. Though, maybe it was because he was a bit more than that, they both were. 

Regardless, you owed him for not abandoning you out there in the frozen tundra to die. Much less putting in the effort he had to care for you.

As you traverse the hall now, there's only the slightest pain still left in your ankle as you shuffle. You'd left the crutches behind today, as you had been the past several mornings, despite the lunar-themed yeti's insistence for otherwise. 

That was another thing, the care. For a so-called devil, he had the attitude of a saint. Or well, you didn't know any saints, so a good friend then. A very good friend, at that. 

You found yourself in long conversations that would last hours, either listening to that quiet tone regale you with stories of all his travels, or sharing some of your own experiences prior to meeting them. You enjoyed the walks you'd take together through the caverns, or going with him out into the arctic—on the rare trips he would allow you with your injury—to scout for poachers and the likes. 

And those rare moments you could get him to laugh at one of your jokes, it lit something inside you that you couldn't describe. Something that albeit would be a bit more frightening than it already was if not for your situation. 

You think the combination of getting your foot caught in a bear trap, freed and then chased by a rabid yeti-bot, and then saved by the other side of that same yeti-bot, allowed you some freedom when it came to your feelings. 

But that wasn't the point to what you were doing. Rather, you wanted to show your appreciation for Moon, not your feelings. Nevermind the fact that today did just so happen to be Valentine's, having found out by checking the date on your half-dead phone. 

Besides, You didn't even know if it was even possible for him to return such affections. Truthfully, you preferred not knowing if it meant you could keep this peace you've had for so long now. You were almost afraid for when you fully healed. 

Afraid that the moment you could leave, you'd be kicked out, back into the cold to survive to find your own way back to society. That the past few months were nothing but a ruse, set up by Moon and in fact once you were at a good range, your back turned and unaware, Sun would bear down on you and—

You shake your head, no. Despite your initial encounter, Sun had been fine. He wasn't allowed out much, so you didn't speak much, though you also think he would prefer not to. It didn't necessarily have to do with you in particular, you don't think. 

Whereas Moon was more oriented to stay on task, Sun had his own personal drive to fulfill. You'd yet to figure out exactly what that was yet, however. Besides the desire to hunt and kill just for the thrill of it. Whatever it was, with your injury, you simply didn't fit into it. You had no use—for now—so he left you to your own devices. 

For now. 

You flip on the light to the kitchen area as you enter, dimmed lighting now illuminating the space. 

You'd been surprised to find there was indeed working cooking equipment in the research station. Not originally all in the same space, but with a bit of help, you'd dragged everything functional into one space. 

When it came to ingredients, you didn't have much to work with besides what either yeti brought to you. There was some very old canned food you'd found, and several containers of unopened spices, but beyond that it was slim pickings. The crate of hot coco you'd found had been a godsend. Considering the situation though, you weren't going to complain. 

The idea of making a meal had come from the simple fact of the matter that beyond hunting and protecting, Moon nor Sun did much else. So, providing nourishment would have to be your way to pay back their hospitality. Or at least, Moon's hospitality. If Sun enjoyed something you made, you'd consider that in and of itself a victory.

So, you set to work immediately. Opening the fridge, you pulled out one of the the few items in there, a massive bluefin tuna, which took up the majority of the space. You struggle to take it out, much less carry it with wobbling limbs over to the island. When you put it on the counter, you almost swear you hear it creak under the weight. 

You step back and let out a breath, admiring the giant fish for a moment. While the two really only ate for fuel—a fish like this would just simply be devoured as is from what you'd seen—you knew they could taste, and that when presented with chances to try something that was flavored in some regard, they did seem to enjoy it. Especially Sun, having taken one bite of your beef jerky and snatching the rest away for himself when you'd not been paying attention. 

Though you only had the one fish and just a few other ingredients to work with, you had several ideas in mind for how to properly utilize it. Taking the large butcher knife, you cleaned, gutted, and scaled it, and divided it up into proper pieces. 

The loin you'd make steaks out of, pan searing and basting in fats, utilizing the bit of pepper and spices you had available. You set aside three to cook and stored the rest in the freezer. 

The back you would smoke, creating some jerky from the pieces there. Thankfully, Moon kept firewood around in case the power failed entirely, and you doubted he would notice a few pieces going missing. You'd utilized one of the broken freezers for your smokehouse. 

The belly would be raw, sliced thin and served with a bit of the salty roe that you'd discovered inside the fish initially. 

As for the remaining bits of the fish, you'd stew the bones for a broth and fry the collar and cheeks as one final touch to finish off the meal. 

It was a lot, all things considered, and for them it may very well be next to nothing in comparison to their appetites, especially Sun's. But, that wasn't going to deter you from trying your best to make something from your heart. So, you got to work. 

You had no idea when Moon would return, so you tried your best to work both quickly and effectively. Thankfully, since several items were basic prep, they took very little time to come together. You enjoyed it, the process overall. After all the time being spent on you, being able to give back felt gratifying in its own way, exciting even. Again, ignoring your own feelings about the yeti. 

At some point, you even find a small radio, the batteries still good to your delight. Despite your location, you can just barely catch a signal as sappy love songs play from some far away station. You hum and dance and sing to the music as you cook, the time passing by like nothing to you in your focused state. You even are able to make yourself some hot coco, sipping on it throughout the cooking process. 

You're so focused, even, that you don't notice the towering presence hovering around the other side of the counter until you turn directly to face it. You were just setting down the last bit of the meal, ready to sit and wait for Moon's return, so color you shocked when you find yourself face to chest with Sun instead. 

His head cocked to the side as he looks down at you, expression unreadable as he examines you with that calculated stare.

"You've been busy." He states. 

You come out of your daze, shaking your head. "I-yeah. I have."

"Tore up the meat. A pity. I was going to enjoy that." He picks at one of his claws, you see a hint of red stained there before he glances back up to you, grin wide. "Though, it's not nearly as good as when it's fresh, anyhow."

You both know that fresh isn't quite what he's implying. 

You swallow, while you'd been expecting Moon—and would have preferred him, especially in this case—this was technically a gift for the day-themed yeti too.

Deciding you weren't going to let your lingering fear overtake you, you straighten up, and steady your voice. "This is all for you, actually. And Moon, of course. I, wanted to extend my thanks for, allowing me to stay these past few months." This again was technically all for Moon, but you couldn't exactly say that with Sun standing right in front of you. 

"I—Me?" He questions, eyes widening and grin falling. 

You nod. "Yeah, I um, figured that something made with a bit more care might be something you guys liked. I noticed you never really get the chance to... add more flavor to things, and you seemed to like my snacks in the past so, i just—" You stop when you find that he's eye to eye with you now, baring down on you with a serious expression you weren't anticipating. 

"You made us, me, a meal?" The way the words are half-snarled mere inches from your face makes you flinch. 

"Y-yes?"

Sun stares at you for a bit longer, and if you weren't so alarmed you'd move away. But you don't. 

After a few moments more, he huffs, then starts to chuckle, standing straight again. "Aren't you just so interesting, Little Star?" 

You feel confusion knit your brows only for them to shoot up in shock as Sun's hand suddenly grasps your chin, leaning in again. 

His other hand snatches one of the pieces of raw fish from the table, eating it in one bite. "Such an offering from you is, surprising but, despite your, obvious misconceptions about our relationship, I suppose I can consider it." He tilts your head this was and that. "You're not the worst option I've ever been presented with."

"I, huh?" 

He let's you go again, grabbing one of the steaks with his bare hands. His teeth tear through it like it's nothing. You can only watch as you try to understand what he's saying, not entirely comprehending it. 

When he's finished, he wipes his mouth, snickering to himself. "I certainly can't wait to see what he thinks of your proposition. I'm sure it will be entertaining to say the least."

Before you can respond, he walks over to the light switch, dimming the lights as low as possible, thus allowing for Moon to take his place. 

As the switch occurs, Sun makes one final remark, and it all finally clicks to you. "Something you should keep in mind though if I do accept, Sunshine, is that I don't share."

With that, you're left with an embarrassing realization, and Moon. 

You can't make eye contact with him, instead turning around and starting to busy yourself with cleaning up to distract from the burning feeling spread across your cheeks. 

You can't believe you didn't put together that something like this would mean something like that to them. But it's not like you would have known either! How were you supposed to understand the cultural differences between humans and yeti-robots that lived in abandoned research centers? This feels like something that was on them and not you to be honest. 

Your half-delusioned reasonings do nothing to stop the racing in your heart as you clean, and you just hope to finish up quickly, grab a snack for yourself, and get out of there to keep yourself from any further embarrassment. 

"It's very good, Starlight."

You pause for a moment, then hum. "Y-yeah?"

"Yes. The amount of flavor you've packed into each dish is... incredible." Moon says, sounding genuinely a bit in awe. 

It only worsens your state, mumbling back a quiet response. "I'm, I'm glad you like it."

Quiet between the two of you. The radio still plays softly throughout the space, only disrupted by the sound of clinking as you clean things up, or Moon's utensils scraping against each other. 

"So what Sun said—" "You should eat too—"

You both stop, and looking back to him, you laugh softly. 

You nod. "You first."

"Join me." He pats a seat next to him. "It's only fair after the effort you've put in."

"Oh! Okay." 

You try not to make a fool of yourself as you make your way over and sit down. You can only protest as Moon piles you a plate full of food, depositing it in front of you once he's finished. 

He hands you a fork, chuckling at the scowl on your features. "You need your energy too, if you want to stand any chance at getting better."

"You're not wrong." You sigh, taking a bite of the smoked fish. As you'd hoped, it's delicious, and you appreciate your own efforts to make such good food in that moment. 

"So,"—Moon reaches for a bit of the fried collar—"You were saying?"

You almost choke on the bite you just swallowed. You regain your composure to answer. "I, um, Sun mentioned, that um, something like this was very, very, important to you guys in a specific way. Which, honestly I didn't know and I'm so sorry if I've offended you I just wanted to do something nice—"

You're interrupted by a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

"I would say offended is nowhere close to the feelings you've elicited. Honestly." The night-themed yeti states, amusement between the words. "Rather, I find myself rather interested in your proposal, intentional or not."

Your eyes widen ever further. "Pr-proposal?"

"If I'm misreading, then I am sorry, Star. But I—"

"No!" You shake your head, trying again. "No, you're not um, misreading. But again this wasn't my intent at all. I'm definitely all for it. I mean, to a point you know, sorry this isn't something I ever expected to happen but I really do like you, a lot and—"

Instead of a kiss, a piece of tuna is pressed into your mouth, and with how good it is you can't say for sure that you'd prefer the kiss or not. As you chew, a slight scowl on your features, Moon laughs. It makes your heart flutter for a moment. 

"I really like you too. I wasn't sure that you'd feel the same, so I didn't act on those feelings. But, since you've shown that you clearly feel something,"—He snickers as you shoot him another glare—"For me, I'm more than happy to make it clear to you now."

"Gee, thanks." 

Another kiss is pressed to your hair, arm wrapping around you and you welcome it, snuggling into the warm fur next to you. You grab a piece of tuna, munching on it to hide your fluster in that moment. 

"And since he's already said it, I will too." Moon's voice is right next to your ear in that moment, low but lethal. 

"I don't share either."

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

Thank you for the request @divinit3a!! I had lots and lots of fun with the yetis and i can't wait to see what else you do with them yourself, i may perhaps do a bit more when I find the time hehehehe

My writing Masterpost

DCA Valentine's Masterpost

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@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8 @luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @milosmantis @robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva @juukai @crystalmagpie447 @mothgutz236 @lizyxml @divinit3a @amarynthian-chronicles @crystalfay @that-one-unknown-artist @rosescarletful @buzzybee3

[prinzrupprecht]

What it Would Be Like To Date Poseidon

This one was a request. He’s not my cup of tea but also the guy I simp in Apoc isn’t anyone’s cup of tea either.

Character traits to start off with.

He’s cold and stoic. Poseidon is portrayed as emotionally distant and supremely arrogant, with very little regard for others, even fellow gods.

He is very authoritarian: He believes in absolute control and sees emotions and weakness as beneath him.

He is also prideful: He despises inferiority and disorder, viewing himself as a being above reproach or connection.

Based off these traits he is…

Emotionally unavailable: He wouldn’t open up easily, if at all. You’d likely feel isolated.

Controlling or dominant: He would expect loyalty and possibly obedience, not partnership…

High standards: He might judge harshly or expect perfection from his partner.

Protective (in a twisted way): If he did feel attachment, it might manifest as possessiveness rather than affection.

Rare vulnerability: If someone did break through, he might offer fierce, silent, loyalty, but that’s a very big “if.”

Fantasy vs Reality of this relationship

Fantasy appeal: For some of you guys that find him attractive and like his powerful, regal aura would give a “dark romance” or “tame the cold god” kind of way.

Reality: In truth, such a partner would likely be emotionally distant, hard to communicate with, and potentially dismissive of human emotion or vulnerability.

Verdict: Poseidon would be a difficult, emotionally distant, and potentially toxic partner. He’s not written as someone capable of—or interested in—human connection or romantic vulnerability.

Ya this guy is a red walking flag. But I ain’t done yet. Since this isn’t reality. Let’s go with fantasy route.

The Vibe: Cold Royalty

You wouldn’t be dating a “boyfriend”, you’d be dating a god who sees himself as above everyone, including you. Being close to him would feel like constantly walking a tightrope between reverence and fear.

He wouldn’t pursue you. You’d be chosen like a mortal curiosity, not an equal.

Affection would be subtle, or hidden entirely. No hugs, no pet names. Maybe a nod of approval… if you’re lucky.

He wouldn’t tolerate weakness. Cry in front of him? He’d probably walk away or look at you with disdain, unless some crack in his armor revealed he cared more than he admitted.

The perks

If you did earn his attention or affection, it would come with intense power and protection.

You’d never have to fear danger… no one would dare touch you.

He’d express care through action: shielding you, offering gifts, silence-breaking gestures.

If anyone insulted you, they might not live to repeat it.

The Struggles

You’d feel alone, even when you’re with him. He wouldn’t share his thoughts or emotions.

His pride could crush you. Disagreeing with him might be seen as disrespect.

You’d have to prove your worth constantly, because he only respects strength—physical, emotional, or intellectual.

If He Fell for You (Rare Scenario)

If somehow you got through to him…

His loyalty would be absolute, but not romantic in the human sense.

He might open up to you once—and it would be monumental, like watching an ocean break open after centuries of stillness.

His love would be intense, elemental, and terrifying—something ancient and possessive, not tender.

Now for the final conclusion

Dating Poseidon would feel more like a power struggle than a relationship.

But if you enjoy the “ice king melts for one person” trope and can handle the emotional drought until that happens, it could theoretically work.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part vi)

a/n: today on your early dose Stark Fluff, it's drugs against humanity. claere is going nuts and cregan brings out dopes like the bad bitch he is

Cregan Stark had grown accustomed to the sounds of Winterfell at night—the rustle of trees in the godswood, the howling winds against the walls, and the shifting of ice and snow as the old castle settled deeper into the frost. But the nights had changed.

Now, something far more alarming stirred within these walls.

He felt it more with each passing night, a part of him slipping further away, drawn into a darkness he couldn’t touch or see. It wasn’t the wind or the groaning wood that unnerved him anymore. That part of him, the part that was running far away, was her. His wife. It was Claere.

He watched from the bed for the second time that night, helpless and exhausted, as she drifted through the room, her movements ghostly, as if she were caught in a dream she couldn’t wake from. Her nightly habits had always been strange, but now they were something else entirely—more frequent, more dangerous, more haunting. Even her dragon, Luna, seemed to mirror the chaos inside her, her bellowing growls sounding off deep into the night.

Claere strode near the window, her eyes half-lidded, whispering words he couldn’t fully understand. She was distant, more so than usual. Her usual nightly rituals—her waking, her wandering, her mumbling. Some nights, she’d slip from his arms, barefoot and silent, wandering out into the biting cold of Winterfell’s courtyards.

Now, it was tears. It was ripping at her hair, thinking too hard. It was weeping, it was crying to stop whatever it was she saw in her eyes. It was desperation that left him powerless to ease. It was as if the sharp thorns that grew on this beautiful rose had turned inward, pricking her deeper every time she flew past the Wall.

Tonight was no different. He watched her move, a pale figure in the dark, and he knew what was coming. He remembered how, not long ago, she’d spoken to the children of Winterfell.

"Dreams are just that," she had said to the little ones, her voice calm and reassuring, "and nightmares, even less. They’re simply our own little mysteries, and they are only yours to unravel."

He had marvelled at her then, the way she bent to their level with a gentle smile, easing their fears with the strength of her presence. But now, her own nightmares haunted her, and whatever they were, they seemed to be unravelling her instead. Perhaps she didn’t even realize, how deeply it was breaking her.

It was like the thrill of the hunt, he thought. That intoxicating rush, the chase that consumed you whole. But then, always, there came the bitter part—the kill. The blood on the snow.

Claere had become a stranger in the dark, unreachable, caught in some distant place. The parts of her that made her her—her clever wit, her regal grace, the way she’d laugh, rare but sincere—those parts he cherished. But these wakeful nights, the bitterness that crept in when she was somewhere else, chasing shadows… it hurt him more than it seemed to hurt her.

Cregan propped himself up, running a tired hand over his face, trying to push away the exhaustion. He wanted to go to her, to pull her back into the warmth of their bed, to soothe whatever haunted her. But he knew better. Whatever hunted her, it was out of his reach.

As he rose from the bed, her murmuring grew louder, more frantic, her voice sharp as if echoing from some far-off place. He strained to catch the words.

“Baelor… Baelor… Baelor…”

The name sent a shiver through him, a wave of dread tightening in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard her mutter it, always in broken whispers, her gaze distant, as if she were chasing some ghost. But the way she said it now, like a chant, filled him with icy fear.

“Claere,” he called gently, stepping closer to her. “Please come back to me, love. It's much too late.”

She didn’t respond. Her steps became more erratic, her body moving with a sudden urgency as she wandered near the hearth. And then, he saw it.

The gleam of steel.

A knife, small but sharp, shimmered in the dim light, clenched in her hand. Before he could react, he noticed the handmaiden who had entered the room moments before, carrying a basin of water. She stood frozen in place, the knife pressed dangerously against her throat.

Claere’s voice, cold and distant, barely above a whisper: “It must be done… don’t see, don’t see…”

“Claere!” Cregan’s voice rang out, sharper than he intended, his heart pounding in his chest. He took a step forward, trying to stay calm, though fear surged through him. “Claere, no. Look at me. Put the blade down.”

She didn’t move. The handmaiden trembled, her wide eyes locked on Cregan, her breath shallow as the blade pressed against her skin.

“Claere, listen to me,” Cregan urged, his voice softening as he edged closer. “It’s not real.”

"We have to save her." She blinked, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—crossing her clouded gaze. But the knife stayed where it was, unmoved.

“It’s not real,” he repeated, his hand inching closer, slow, controlled, deliberate. “You’re safe. You’re here with me.”

For a moment, the room seemed to freeze. Cregan’s hand reached the hilt of the knife, and with a swift, practised motion, he knocked it from her grip. His other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her away and safely as the blade clattered to the stone floor.

The handmaiden wheezed, stumbling back, clutching her throat, but Cregan’s focus remained on Claere. Her breathing was shallow, her body trembling, as if she were still lost in her head. He turned to the terrified girl.

“Leave us,” he commanded her, his voice firm. “And speak of this to no one.”

The handmaiden nodded quickly, pale and shaken, and fled the room without a word.

Cregan knelt with Claere on the floor, his hands gently cradling her face, worry etched in every line of his expression. “My love?”

But she didn’t respond, her eyes still distant, lost somewhere beyond the room. Slowly, her breathing steadied, but it wasn’t from clarity. She blinked, her gaze slipping away from his and drifting again into the haze of her mind. Her lips parted, a faint murmur escaping.

“Baelor… Baelor…”

Cregan’s grip tensed, his heart aching. He called her name again, softer this time, his voice almost pleading, but she didn’t hear him. Instead, her eyes fluttered closed, her knees buckling, her body sagging against him as the fight drained from her limbs. The murmurs softened, trailing off into silence.

He held her for a moment longer, hoping for some sign that she was waking, that she was returning to him. But there was nothing. She had fallen back into sleep as easily as if nothing had happened, the nightmare fading from her mind as quickly as it had come.

Cregan sat there, his hands still around her, utterly powerless. He wanted to shake her awake, to demand answers, to pull her back to the present where she belonged, but it was no use. Claere had slipped away again, disappearing into whatever dreamscape she was trapped in, leaving him alone with the memory of the blade at the handmaiden’s throat.

Slowly, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her back to the bed. She didn’t stir, her face peaceful in sleep, as if the madness that had gripped her moments before had been nothing more than a passing wind. He laid her down, pulling the furs over her, but he couldn’t shake the unease that ate at his composure.

She was here, but not truly.

Cregan sat beside her, holding her hand, grounding her, watching her for what felt like hours, the fire crackling softly behind him. His thoughts churned, but there was nothing he could do. Whatever darkness had taken root in Claere, it was beyond his reach, and it terrified him more than anything he had ever faced.

He brought her hand to his lips. "I will fix this. I will."

He wanted to save her, to fight whatever hunted her in her dreams. But how could he fight something he couldn’t even see? Something she didn’t even know was haunting her?

The thrill of the hunt, he thought bitterly, was nothing compared to this. Because this time, the prey was slipping further and further from his grasp, and he was left wondering if he’d ever be able to catch it before it was too late.

X

Cregan stood in the maester's chamber, the dim light of the drooping candles casting long shadows on the stone walls. The old man, Maester Kennet, sifted through an array of vials and dried herbs, his face unnoticeable. Cregan's fingers drummed lightly on the wooden table, his voice low and tense.

“Tell me again,” he said, his gaze sharp. “Nightshade. What does it do?”

The maester turned, his expression cautious, wary of the question’s significance. “In small doses, two or three drops, the essence of nightshade induces sleep, m'lord. A peaceful slumber. It can calm the most troubled mind, relieve pain… but—”

“And in larger doses?” Cregan interrupted his voice harder now, almost daring the maester to say it.

Kennet hesitated, his fingers brushing against the edges of a small, dark vial. “In larger doses, ten or more drops, nightshade brings death. Quiet, painless, but certain. A drop too much and there is no waking.”

Silence stretched between them.

Cregan's face tensed as he stared at the vial on the table. He wasn’t certain what he was searching for in the maester's words—reassurance, perhaps, or maybe a way to justify what he was considering.

“Have you given it to her?” Cregan’s voice was soft, almost a whisper now, but there was a dangerous edge to it.

The maester’s eyes widened slightly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “I would not dare, my lord. Never nightshade. Only milk of the poppy, to ease her unrest when the... red flower blooms.”

Cregan exhaled, though the tension remained. He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the table, deep in thought.

“And if… I were to ask for it?” Cregan's voice was firm, though his eyes reflected the storm raging within.

Kennet met his gaze, his voice steady but careful. “You must know, my lord, that such a decision is not one taken lightly. Nightshade should be used only in direst need.”

Cregan nodded, his mind already racing, calculating the risks. He seized the cold vial into his palm.

"Thank you, Maester Kennet," he muttered, pushing away from the table, his heavy boots echoing as he made for the door.

But as he reached for the handle, the maester spoke again, softer now. "If I may, Lord Stark… be sure it's true peace you seek for her—and not an escape from what torments her mind."

Cregan paused, his hand tightening on the door, but he did not look back. Without another word, he left the chamber.

X

Claere had never known peace, not truly, especially when she roamed between dreams and reality, but tonight it felt close—close enough that she could almost pretend. As she brushed her hair in smooth strokes, she dreamed, not of long battles or falling dragons, but of the man she loved, the man who had somehow become her sanctuary in this strange place.

Her mind wandered, against her will, carried on the ebb of the flames, and she thought of him. Of Cregan. Of his coarse hands on her skin, of his lips that caressed the hollow of her neck, the way he had looked at her the last time they’d lain together, right where she sat—eyes so grey, full of unspoken love. She felt her heartbeat quicken slightly at the memory. His strength, the way his arms enveloped her, the rough edge of his voice when he spoke her name. His touch, at once tender and snug, had left its imprint on her skin, lingering long after they’d parted.

Her hand paused mid-stroke. The fire blurred, and suddenly, in the flames, she saw it—a flash, vivid and sharp. A single drop of green, fell through a murky sea, kindling in a flash, spreading like wildfire. It was quick, but it seared into her mind, the image stark against the warmth of the room. Her breath hitched, and then, as quickly as it had come, the vision vanished.

Before she could think more about it, the door creaked open, and Cregan strolled into the room, his presence filling the space and banishing the image from her mind.

"Dreaming again, sweetling? Of me?" he teased softly. His voice was deep and rough-edged, but there was a warmth in it that was meant only for her. He crossed the room, laying a kiss gently atop her head, his lips brushing the crown of her silver locks.

Cregan had made the room their own, pushing the chairs and tables aside, creating a nest of furs by the fire—a place where she had found warmth, her favourite corner of Winterfell. He had known. Always thinking of her comfort, even when she didn’t ask for it.

"Only a little," she murmured, her eyes following him as he moved across the room with a relaxed grace. He had the makings of a great king, should he ever be interested in a throne.

"A little," he scoffed. "You wound me."

"The battle scars of love," she said to which he laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

He held a pitcher, which he set down near a low stool without explanation. She didn’t ask. He always brought something with him, whether it was news, wine, or small comforts. She observed him fondly, though her face betrayed none of it—nervous, shy on the aspect. Still, she could not say why. Maybe it was the ease with which he began to unfasten his leather coat of plates, down to his tunic and breeches, his moves deliberate.

"The lords have been as excruciating as ever," he started with a chuckle. "More talk of trade routes through the Neck, and their precious grievances over wildling sightings. As if they’ve forgotten winter's nearly here."

Claere nodded, her lips twitching in the faintest shadow of a smile. She’d always liked listening to his tales of council and governance, though she cared little for the politics of it. It was the way Cregan spoke—his dry northern humour, the way he managed to find levity even in the mundane.

"And how was your day?" he asked, his voice softer now, as he kicked off his shoes with his feet and settled beside her on the rug with a tired grunt. He nestled closer, his head resting gently against her neck, inhaling her scent.

"Uneventful," she replied, though her mind drifted briefly to her flights with Luna. "The expected. Luna is weary. I haven't flown her beyond the Wall in a while."

"Mm," he hummed as he poured a goblet from the pitcher. The liquid was pale, almost like milk, thin as it filled the cups.

"And what of your mind?"

She stiffened slightly but kept her gaze on the fire. "'Tis... there."

"As your lord and saviour, I have just the solution for you." He offered the full goblet to her with a knowing smile. "This is said to help with disturbed slumber. I know you’ve had trouble resting lately."

She gave it a cautious sniff. It was newly warmed milk, cow's milk. A rare drink in these parts.

"Have I?" she asked, uncertain.

"You’ve been waking up more," he rumbled, kissing the side of her cheek. "I want you to rest well."

She glanced at him, questioning. "You notice too much."

"Too little, I think. Drink up."

Claere stared at the cup, her gaze lingering on the pale liquid as it rippled in the goblet. She wasn’t convinced. Her body had grown weaker in recent days, a weariness she hadn’t expected, but she had chalked it up to Luna—her growing hunger, the long flights beyond the Wall to hunt. Sleep had never been a burden, at least, not that she had noticed. Yet, as she looked into the cup, something stirred within her.

The milk rippled again, and for a fleeting moment, she saw it—a drop of green, bright and burning, swallowed into the depths of the liquid. It was quick, just a flicker, but a shiver slithered up her spine. The room's amber flames shimmered on the surface of the milk, and her mind whispered the possibility. Simply sweetened by a touch of the dark.

She looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his face, and her expression unchanged. Cregan, with his furrowed brow and his earnest eyes. Always trying to protect her, even from things he could not understand.

She smiled. Without another word, she lifted the goblet to her lips, her eyes never leaving him, and took a sip.

X

Cregan stood at the foot of the bed as Claere lay beneath the thick furs, her chest rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of deep sleep. For days now, she had slept soundly, without the restless tosses and turns, without walking off her nightmares that had plagued her nights. Her face, so often marked by tension and distant thoughts, now seemed softer, almost serene.

He should have felt relief. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? For her to rest, for her to have peace. This was wrong, undreamt of as her husband, but right for her.

But as he watched her, the small vial of nightshade hidden in the folds of his tunic felt like a lodestone towing him down. His gaze lingered on her pale face, framed by the loose strands of silver-gold hair. She looked untouched by the turmoil they both carried, unaffected by the darkness.

But the peace was an illusion. And he knew it.

He couldn’t keep giving her this. He couldn’t keep feeding her nightshade like some remedy for the battles she fought within herself. It wasn’t a solution; it was a reprieve—a brief, cruel reprieve. One that couldn’t last.

Cregan’s jaw clenched as he thought of the future. Of waking her each night to pour another dose down her throat. Of watching her slowly become dependent on it, her mind slipping further away as the poison dulled her to everything, even to him. The thought twisted his stomach. He would lose her—slowly, painfully—if he let this continue.

His hand instinctively tightened around the vial in his tunic. No. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t let it come to that. But what choice did he have? He had promised her rest, and this was the only way he could give it to her. He couldn’t bear to see her suffer.

But this wasn’t a cure. It was just another form of losing her.

Claere stirred in her sleep, a soft breath escaping her, and Cregan’s breaths stuttered at the sight of her. He moved closer, kneeling by her side to watch her more closely. His rough hand brushed against her cheek, the warmth of her skin a fragile reminder of her mortality. For a fleeting moment, she leaned into his touch, her lips parting in a sigh. It was a small comfort, but not enough to dispel the storm that raged inside him.

He couldn’t keep her like this. And yet, the alternative terrified him.

Cregan stayed by her side a moment longer, his hands closed around hers as if he could protect her from whatever nightmares awaited her when the nightshade was gone.

The peace was already crumbling, and there was no way to stop it.

X

The great hall was lit by the blazing hearth, the winter winds pressing against the castle like an unrelenting spectre. Cregan Stark sat at the head of the table, flanked by his bannermen, but the eyes of the room were not on him—they were on her.

Claere sat quietly, composed but pale, her hands resting in her lap, her hair still tousled from dragon riding, shadows hollowing her face.

Luna, her enormous pearly white mount, lay somewhere beyond the gates, scarred, bleeding and restless. The White Dread had returned her rider upon sunup with half-healed claw marks, three jagged rents, almost eight feet long, from which blood still dripped, hot and smoking. No one dared ask what could have possibly hurt such a fearsome creature, but the question hung in the air like a curse.

Cregan’s heart was embittered by their accusations. The council chamber felt chiller, the stone walls pressing in with a suffocating sense of scrutiny. The eyes of his lords were upon her, and Claere—regal, unyielding—sat at the end of the long table, facing their silent judgment like a queen before a court of circling wolves.

He had to take it. He had to sit here and endure their suspicions, their whispered concerns that had now turned into open accusations. For months, he had watched her slip out of his reach. He’d seen the change, the strain. The sleepless nights, the moments where she seemed absent even in his arms.

And it was the Wall—always the Wall.

He could feel their tension, and hear the whispers that had been brewing in Winterfell far before her frequent trips beyond the Wall. This was simply an excuse to question her outright. His lords, fiercely proud of their Northern roots, were growing uneasy with the mystery that clung to her—a woman who had brought a dragon into their snow-covered world, who disappeared for days without word or explanation. Her dragon was another shadow looming over their fears of the unburnt girl.

At last, Lord Manderly, ever bold, cleared his throat. His voice, heavy with suspicion, echoed through the hall.

"Lady Claere," he began slowly, "the Wall is a frontier, a line not crossed without purpose. Yet, you venture beyond it as if it were nothing but an open gate. We hear tales—wild tales—of your presence there, of the wildlings who speak of you and your dragon. We must know these truths you hide, my lady."

Claere turned her head slightly, her gaze still focused out the window, seemingly unfazed by their words. When she finally spoke, she was calm; too much.

“I have no dealings with the wildlings,” she said simply, her eyes unmoving. “My oaths are sworn to Lord Stark and his kingdom.”

Another lord, Ser Edric of White Harbor, leaned forward, his tone sharper. "And yet you leave for days without a word, to wildling lands, where dangers lurk that even your dragon cannot burn away. What is it you seek out there?"

Cregan could feel the tension rise like a storm gathering on the horizon. They were not wrong to ask, yet their suspicions clawed at him. She had given them no reason to doubt her loyalty, and yet here she was, standing trial in all but name.

Claere’s gaze remained far away as if their questions were of little consequence to her. “Luna hunts,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, though her words cut through the room like steel. “The land beyond the Wall offers her ample prey. As it has been said before.”

“Prey?” Lord Manderly’s lips curled in distaste. “And what of you, my lady? What is it that you hunt in those frozen wastes?”

Her response was cool, cryptic. "I hunt peace. I wonder what is it you hunt, my lord. Fear? Is that your game?"

The lords exchanged glances, a ripple of discontent stirring around the table. The tension thickened the air heavy with their growing distrust.

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he watched the scene unfold, his fists clenching beneath the table. They had no right to speak to her like this, no right to question her like she was some criminal. But he also knew their concerns—feared them as deeply as they did. It wasn’t just about her flights; it was about the unknown. Claere, in all her mystery, had unsettled them, and her dragon—Luna—had made it worse.

But it wasn’t just them. It was him, too. He’d watched her grow more distant, watched her lose herself in those trips, in her sleepless nights, chasing shadows he couldn’t touch. It was hurting her, and yet she didn’t see it. Or wouldn’t see it. Perhaps this would at least make her see.

“I’ve heard some tell,” a third voice piped up—Lord Glover this time, his expression grim. “The wildlings speak of a pact. A pact with the dragon queen, they say. Is there truth in it, my lady? Do you make alliances beyond the Wall?”

Claere didn’t flinch, didn’t shift in her seat. Her eyes flicked over the gathered lords briefly, then back to the window.

"The wildlings speak of many things," she said flatly. "None of which concern you."

Her words, while calm, were a dismissal, and it only stoked the fire in their hearts. The murmurs grew louder, the lords exchanging glances, their suspicions deepening. They were growing restless, their unease turning to frustration.

Cregan, sitting at the head of the table, felt his control slipping away. His love for her warred with the practicality of the situation. He could not openly defend her, not when she gave them so little.

His wife was the blood of Old Valyria, a dragonrider, something far removed from the North's hardened ways. His lords, steeped in centuries of mistrust for anything beyond the Wall, wouldn’t understand her motives, her need for escape, for the open skies. But now, her silence was feeding their fears.

"I've made up my mind," Cregan announced, his voice as cold as the winter winds outside.

The council's eyes mulled heavily upon her, yet she didn’t flinch. Cregan’s frustration burned hotter in his chest, not only for the lords who had questioned her so harshly but for her—her silence, her refusal to let him in.

"There will be no more flights beyond the Wall."

Claere’s head turned sharply, surprise flickering in her eyes for the first time. Her voice was feeble with disbelief. "You would chain us here... my lord?"

Her use of the title stung more than anything else. He fisted his hand under the table, forcing himself to remain calm.

"You’ll fly where it is safe, past the Kingsroad southward and no more than two leagues beyond the Long Lake," he said, his tone firm, brooking no argument. "And Luna will be trained to survive on light fare until winter passes."

The council remained silent, uneasy but compliant under his regime. They knew better than to defy the Warden of the North in his own hall.

Claere said nothing more. She merely sat, poised and still, her eyes far away, her hand resting on her side. And that’s when he saw it—something out of place, something wrong. Her posture stiffened, and she winced, ever so slightly, her hand pressing discreetly against her side.

Cregan’s gaze dropped, his heart seizing in his chest. A dark stain spread beneath her ribs, seeping through the fabric of her gown.

Blood. Fresh. A gash, raw and bleeding.

He rose abruptly, the scraping of his chair against stone cutting through the tense air. The lords fell silent, their eyes turning toward him.

"My lords," Cregan said, his voice tight, cold with command. "This discussion is at an end."

"But, Lord Stark—" Manderly began, his brow furrowing.

“I have concluded this issue,” Cregan cut him off, his voice hard as ice. His gaze never left Claere. "We will speak of this no longer."

The room fell into an uneasy quiet. The lords glanced between one another, but none dared speak. They could see the fury brewing beneath his calm exterior, the unspoken warning that questioning him further would not end well. They knew better than to press their lord when his tone carried such finality.

She met his gaze briefly, and for a moment, he saw something in her eyes—a flicker of pain, maybe even gratitude. But then she turned away, her silence louder than any words.

X

The fire crackled softly in their chambers, yet its warmth did nothing to melt the cold that hung in the air between them. Cregan stood by, watching with tense silence as the maester deftly bound the wound at Claere’s side. Kennet's creased face was patient as he worked, his hands sure. Claere’s eyes, distant and focused on the fire, cringed a little every time a stitch pulled at her skin. The scent of herbs and poultices thickened the air, but it did little to mask the weight of what lay unsaid.

“The blade missed the bone. It will heal,” the maester said, his voice measured, though a lingering curiosity was beneath his tone. “What caused this, my lady?”

For a moment, Claere said nothing, her gaze fixed on the flames. Finally, her voice came, distant, almost disinterested. “Wildlings,” she said. “They tried to set a few wild bears on Luna, the size of giants. She barely made it off the ground.”

The maester frowned, clearly puzzled. “I meant your wound, my lady.”

"Oh." Claere blinked, as though only just remembering herself. "I’m not certain.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his anger simmering just below the surface. Before he could speak, the maester finished his work, offered a low bow, and quietly took his leave.

The door shut with a quiet thud, leaving only the two in the tense, suffocating silence. The flames crackled away, but even the warmth of the fire couldn’t thaw the ice that had settled between them.

Cregan stood near the table, his eyes fixed on Claere’s rigid form. She sat by the fire, her posture stiff, her eyes as unreachable as the day they first met, as if the conversation that had just transpired in the council chamber was far beneath her. But he knew better—knew the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curled ever so slightly around the arms of the chair. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even anger, not the kind one could easily name.

"Look at you," he breathed, trying to find the words, "why didn’t you tell me you were harmed?"

For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, without turning to look at him, she spoke, her voice flat. "It’s nothing worth mentioning."

Nothing worth mentioning. She had returned from beyond the Wall, bleeding, wildlings’ rusted spears having drawn her blood, and she spoke of it as if it were a scratch from a thornbush. The anger inside him simmered, barely contained. He wanted to shout, to demand answers, but he knew better than to meet her coldness with heat. It wouldn’t reach her.

“Must have been one of their spears,” she added, her voice still detached, as if she was recounting something mundane, something far from her.

Cregan’s fists clenched. His tolerance, already frayed, began to slip. “Is that all it is to you?” he demanded, his voice tight. “Another scrape? Another wound that means nothing?”

Cregan's fists clenched at his sides, the fury rising again. He couldn't stand it—the indifference, the coldness. Those savages had dared to harm her, and yet she sat here, speaking as though none of it mattered. As though he didn’t matter.

He paced for a moment, his frustration mounting, unsure how to breach the distance between them. She had been like this for days—withdrawn, inaccessible, slipping from him like sand through his fingers. Though necessary in his eyes, these imposed restrictions drove her further away.

Finally, unable to bear the silence, he spoke. "Are you angry at me?"

Claere’s head turned slightly, eyes still distant, as if she were staring through him rather than at him.

"My anger serves no purpose, not in a world like this," she replied, her tone calm, controlled—maddeningly controlled. There was a chill in her voice that made Cregan bristle, a coldness that wasn’t there before.

He wasn’t convinced. "Don’t lie. Not to me."

Claere’s gaze flickered, but she didn’t respond immediately. She remained composed, her hands folded in her lap, the very portrait of poise. Yet Cregan could discern it—the simmering rage beneath her calm, the quiet fury she never allowed herself to voice. Not where others might see.

"I didn’t think I’d need to ask permission to breathe," she finally said, her voice smooth but carrying an edge that sliced through the quiet room. Her eyes met his, and though her tone was even, there was a sharpness to it that felt like a blade slipping between his ribs.

"Or to eat, perhaps. To walk outside these walls. To ride my dragon. To be free, even for a moment."

Cregan’s jaw clenched. "I've allowed you plenty."

The familiar helplessness returned, gnawing at him. He had always loved her independence, her strength, but now it was dangerous, reckless even. She didn’t see it—or worse, maybe she did, and just didn’t care.

A brief silence fell between them, only the soft crackle of the fire filling the space. Claere seemed to brood for a moment, her eyes so far removed again, staring into the flames. When she spoke next, her voice was measured, as if she was treading on thin ice.

“What is the essence of nightshade like, Cregan?” she asked, her gaze now turning back to him, her violet eyes piercing. “Does it taste sweet like molasses? Bitter like wine?”

Cregan felt his blood turn to ice. Her question, so casual yet so sharp, made his breath falter in his chest. He stared at her, searching her face, praying that this was some cruel jest, some distant, detached observation of the world as she often made. But there was no humour in her gaze, only a cold, unnerving certainty.

"You knew?" His voice came out in a rough whisper, disbelief and a creeping dread flooding his veins. How long had she known? Why had she not said anything?

Claere looked at him, unflinching. Of course, she knew.

“Yet you endured it in silence.” His voice was rough, almost pleading now. “What if someone... I had meant to poison you?”

“If that’s what you wanted,” she said, her voice soft but deadly, “I’d drink the whole vial.” She took a breath, her eyes never leaving his. “I’d gladly sleep forever.”

Her words crushed him. Horror and heartbreak twisted a spear into his stomach. The thought of her slipping away like that, of her cold body lying still in his arms, shook him to his core. It was too much—far too much. There was no threat in her voice, no malice—only resignation, like the notion of death no longer held any fear for her. And that terrified him more than anything.

Claere rose from her seat, crossing the small space between them, her steps slow and deliberate. When she stopped in front of him, faces apart from him, her eyes were the entire night sky split in two.

"So why won't you do this for me?" she whispered.

Cregan stared at her, his chest tightening, raising all the fury, fear, and helplessness. His fists clenched at his sides, the frustration he had kept bottled up for so long now threatening to spill over.

“This isn’t about control or freedom, Claere,” he said, his voice harsher than he intended. He began pacing, the tension in the room rising with every step. “This is about keeping you alive. You vanish for days, you come back bleeding, and you expect me to stand by and say nothing? Do you think I want my council breathing down my neck, calling for your head?”

For the first time, Claere’s calm façade cracked—just barely. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. But when she spoke, her voice remained eerily calm.

"You think I’m not capable of protecting myself against any of it?"

“This isn’t about your capability!” he thundered, his voice echoing off the corridors.

The sudden, uncharacteristic power of it startled her, and for the briefest moment, her eyes widened. Cregan had never raised his voice to her before. He had always been measured, always mindful. But now, her standing there, behaving like a nobody, it was too much.

“It is fucking breaking me,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with barely contained rage and something deeper—raw, aching pain. “It breaks me to see you slipping away from me. To watch you turn into someone I can’t reach. Every time you return from beyond the Wall, I am losing you all over again. You come back, but not all of you does. And I—”

"'Tis I who risks this," she interrupted, her voice cutting through his like a sharp breeze.

“No,” he bit back, stepping closer to her, his face inches from hers now. “This is about us. About you disappearing into the shadows, about me waking every night to an empty bed, wondering if you’ll return, or if one day it’ll be a lifeless corpse they bring back to me.”

She stared at him, and for the first time, he saw it—the crack in her armour. A flicker of something in her eyes. It was brief, barely noticeable, but it was there. She was listening, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

"I will not stand for this," he said, his voice quieter now but no less intense. His chest heaved with his words. "You may not be angry, Claere, but I am. I am livid."

Claere's gaze dropped to the fire, her lips pressing into a thin line. Silence fell between them again, and that silence—her silence—was what infuriated him the most. The distance, the way she kept herself apart from him, even now, even here when they were alone.

“Say something, love,” he pleaded, his voice softening, the desperation creeping in now. "Fight me. Argue. Anything, please."

Claere’s gaze lifted to him, her expression impassive, composed once more. She seemed to gather herself, the crack in her armour sealed as if it had never existed.

"As you command, my lord," she said, her tone formal, aloof to his affection. “No more flights beyond the Wall. No more risks.”

Her formal tone, her distant acceptance, grated at him like a blade against stone. It wasn’t anger he saw in her anymore—it was something worse. It was resignation. The very thing he feared most. She was shutting him out, retreating into herself, all while pretending to offer him what he’d asked for.

"It's not like that, love. I only want your peace again," he whispered, almost a plea, reaching out to touch her hand. She moved away to tuck her fingers into her skirts, turning her cheek to him.

"I have not slept well in a few days," she told him. "I'd like to rest now."

The rejection pricked deeper than he cared to admit once her words settled in. They were subtle, but they cut deeper than he’d expected. She didn’t argue, didn’t fight—just turned away, pulling further from him with that calm, elusive composure.

“Claere…” he whispered, but her eyes were still on the fire, her hands tucked into her skirts. As though she were shielding herself from him.

“I'd like to rest,” she repeated, quieter, final.

He watched her for a long moment, heart heavy, before nodding once. With a quiet sigh, Cregan turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

X

thank you for reading! more to come later!

a question for my loveliest people: do you think Cregan was right to feed Claere nightshade and control her whereabouts? what could he have done instead?

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @justdazzling , @lv7867 , @piper570 ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[novaursa]

could you please do torrhen stark x aegon the conquerers youngest sister (not rhaenys), getting married and having kids in winterfell

Queen of Winter

- Summary: Your life with Torrhen flourishes in spite of your brother’s ire.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Torrhen Stark

- Note: This is another part of The Broken Crown series, where the reader chooses Torrhen ending called The Queen's Choice. These events follow after the ending.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The North had never seen such a wedding. The cold winds blew through the godswood as you and Torrhen Stark were wed beneath the heart tree, its ancient branches reaching out as silent witnesses. The Old Gods looked on as you made your vows, their presence felt in every gust of icy wind. Winterfell’s great hall had roared with celebration that night, the fires blazing high in the hearth, the Starks and their bannermen toasting to the union of ice and fire.

Years had passed since that fateful day, and Winterfell was no longer just a place of cold stone and ancient oaths. It was filled with the laughter of children, your children. Nine in total, each one a reflection of the bond between you and Torrhen, the fierce love that had grown despite the odds, despite the war, and despite the looming shadow of Aegon and his sisters.

Your sons were the embodiment of the North’s strength, towering figures with the bulk and muscle of their father’s kin, but with the unmistakable Valyrian features that marked their heritage. Their hair, silver as moonlight, was often tousled by the wind, and their violet eyes burned with the same fierce intensity as your dragon. They moved through Winterfell with the quiet power of wolves, though the fire of dragons coursed through their veins.

Your daughters, on the other hand, were your mirror. Each one carried a trace of your fire, both in spirit and in appearance. They had inherited your beauty, your poise, and the regal way you held yourself, but beneath it all was the cold steel of the North, a quiet fierceness that only you could understand. When they stood with their brothers, they were a fearsome sight, children of two worlds, bonded by blood and the strength of the North.

It was a day of clear skies and crisp air when Torrhen found you in the godswood, watching your children. Your youngest son, Rhaenar, was perched on a low branch of the weirwood tree, his silver hair glowing in the midday light, his eyes fixed on the sky where one of his older brothers circled on dragonback. You smiled, a small, contented sigh escaping your lips.

Torrhen approached quietly, wrapping his arm around your waist, his warmth seeping through the heavy fur cloak you wore. “Rhaenar is restless again,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“He wants a dragon of his own,” you replied, leaning into him. “He watches the skies more than the other children. He has his eyes on one of Tesaerix’s hatchlings.”

Torrhen chuckled softly, his breath misting in the cold air. “The boy has ambition. Like his mother.”

You smiled at that, looking up at your husband. His face, weathered by the years and the responsibilities of ruling, was still as handsome and strong as the day you first met. “And like his father,” you teased. “The Starks may be wolves, but there’s dragon blood in his veins.”

Torrhen’s gaze softened, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “Our children are as much Stark as they are Targaryen. They carry both fire and ice in them. They will grow into great leaders.”

Your eyes turned back to the godswood, watching as your eldest son, Vaeron, landed his dragon in the clearing. The beast, a large creature with scales the color of dark smoke and ember, lowered its head, allowing Vaeron to dismount. He was the spitting image of you in his features, but Torrhen’s strength and Northern stature shaped his form. Vaeron had bonded with the first of Tesaerix’s clutch, a proud dragon who had hatched in the dead of winter.

As Vaeron approached, Rhaenar rushed over to his older brother, eyes wide with excitement. “Did she fly higher today? Did you see beyond the Wall from afar?”

Vaeron smiled, ruffling his little brother’s hair. “Not today, little wolf. But one day, when you have your own dragon, we’ll fly together.”

Rhaenar’s face lit up, and he looked to you with a pleading expression. “Mother, when will one of the hatchlings choose me?”

You knelt down, brushing a lock of silver hair from his forehead. “Patience, my love. The dragons choose when the time is right. They are not just beasts to command—they are kin, bound by blood and fire.”

Rhaenar nodded solemnly, though his excitement was barely contained. The bond between dragon and rider was something every child of yours yearned for, and you knew it would come in time.

That evening, as the fires in Winterfell’s great hall roared and the scent of roasted meat filled the air, your children gathered around the table, laughter and conversation filling the space. Vaeron sat at the head of the table beside Torrhen, discussing strategy and plans with his father, while your daughters entertained their younger brothers, teasing them mercilessly.

Torrhen watched them with pride in his eyes, the legacy you had built together here in the North. “The bannermen will be expecting more of our children to take up their positions soon,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Vaeron will need to command, and the others will follow.”

“They are ready,” you replied, glancing at your sons and daughters. “The dragons have chosen some of them already, and the Old Gods watch over the rest.”

Torrhen took your hand under the table, his grip firm but warm. “I never thought our lives would become this, Y/N. Not after all that’s happened. But now, I can’t imagine it any other way.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling with the same love you had carried since the day you’d flown north to be with him. “This is where we were always meant to be, Torrhen. Here, with our children, our dragons, our home.”

The years had not been without their trials, but in that moment, surrounded by your family, the future seemed as vast and as endless as the northern sky.

In the distance, a dragon roared, its call echoing through the halls of Winterfell, a reminder of the power that lay within your bloodline, and the strength of the bond between fire and ice.

[lunavyn]

BLACKTHORN DEAL | SYLUS, LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ » Synopsis— In the lawless depths of N109, Leila, the elusive Blackthorn Siren, fails a hit on Sylus, the ruthless leader of Onychinus, and soon after, whispers of a bounty on her head emerge. With no allies left, she’s forced into an uneasy alliance with the man she was meant to kill. Sylus, who sees through everyone’s desires, should have ended her—but instead, he offers a deal that keeps her alive and bound to his world. As tensions rise and unseen threats close in, their reluctant partnership becomes something far more dangerous. But in a city where betrayal is inevitable, survival isn’t just about strength—it’s about knowing who to trust before it’s too late. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Pairing— Sylus x Original character (reader) ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Word Count— 36.1K (a legit novela, grab a drink lol) .⊹ ࣪ ˖ Disclaimer— mentions of violence, sex, blood, death, and SA

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A/N— Hey! This is my very first fic with Sylus, my first post here in general. so I really do hope that you will enjoy this one. This isn't fully grasping the true storyline of Sylus in tne game. I just got a few details about him and make an entirely new plot out of it since i find it fun that way and I hope you feel the same way too!

The rain on the N109 Zone wasn’t a gentle drizzle. It was a deluge, a furious, hammering curtain of water that turned the slick, grimy streets into treacherous rivers. Neon signs, their vibrant hues fractured and distorted by the downpour, flickered erratically, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like phantoms in the puddles. The city, a labyrinth of steel and concrete, hummed with a low, malevolent energy, a symphony of urban decay punctuated by the staccato rhythm of the relentless rain.

A man, his tailored suit now a sodden, clinging shroud, sprinted through the narrow alleyways, his breath ragged and desperate. Each pounding footstep was a frantic drumbeat against the slick cobblestones, echoing the frantic rhythm of his own terrified heart. He was hunted, pursued by something unseen, something relentless. The air tasted of ozone and fear, a metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide and panicked, but the rain obscured everything, turning the world into a blur of grey and shimmering light.

He stumbled, his foot catching on a loose stone, and he nearly fell, his hands scraping against the rough brick wall. The alleyway opened into a wider space, a derelict warehouse, its corrugated iron roof sagging and rusted. He lurched inside, his lungs burning, his chest heaving. The warehouse was a cavern of cold, damp air, the silence broken only by the incessant drumming of the rain on the roof and the faint, almost imperceptible hum of a melody, a haunting, ethereal tune that seemed to drift from the shadows.

He leaned against a decaying crate, his body trembling, his eyes darting around the vast, empty space. He thought he was safe, at least for a moment. He thought he’d found sanctuary in the cold, silent darkness. But he was wrong.

“Hi.” The voice, a sultry, silken whisper, cut through the silence like a razor, sending a shiver down his spine. He turned, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Leila sat perched on a stack of crates, her silhouette a stark contrast against the dim light filtering through a broken window. She was dressed in a sleek, midnight-blue dress that shimmered like liquid night, its elegant lines accentuating her graceful form. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a face that was both beautiful and utterly devoid of warmth. She held herself with an air of regal composure, her gaze, sharp and predatory, fixed on him. She looked like a queen surveying her kingdom, not a killer in a slaughterhouse.

The man froze, his blood turning to ice. He realized his mistake, the horrifying truth sinking in like a lead weight. This wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a stage, and he was the final act, the star of a macabre performance.

Leila didn’t move, didn’t rush. She was a predator who savored the hunt, the anticipation of the kill. She slid gracefully from the crates, her footsteps silent on the concrete floor. She circled him, her movements fluid and graceful, like a dancer performing a deadly ballet. Her voice, soft and teasing, filled the empty space, each word a delicate, venomous barb.

“Did you really think you could run?” she purred, tilting her head, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. “It’s cute, really. The way rats scramble for their lives.”

She reached out, her fingers tracing the handle of a gleaming, obsidian-black knife that she held loosely in her hand. The man’s eyes followed the movement, his breath catching in his throat.

He pleaded, his voice a desperate, trembling whisper. He offered money, power, anything, everything, if she would just let him go. But Leila only laughed, a soft, chilling sound that echoed through the warehouse. She flicked the knife between her fingers, the blade catching the dim light and throwing off a faint, menacing gleam.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “You’re already dead. You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.”

She began to hum, a soft, haunting melody that filled the empty space, a tune that seemed to weave itself into the very fabric of the warehouse. The man’s eyes widened, his face contorting in terror. He recognized the tune, a chilling, familiar melody. The Blackthorn Siren always sang before she killed.

He lunged, a desperate, futile attempt to escape his fate. He was a cornered animal, driven byprimal fear. But Leila was faster, untouchable, a phantom slipping through the shadows. She moved with a speed that defied human perception, her movements precise and deadly.

The final strike was elegant, swift, and merciless. The obsidian blade sliced through the air, a whisper of steel, and then a gurgling sound, a final, desperate gasp. A thin line of crimson bloomed across the man’s throat, a stark contrast against his pale skin. His eyes widened in shock, then glazed over, his body crumpling to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

Leila stood over the corpse, her expression unreadable, her face a mask of serene indifference. A small spatter of blood dotted her cheek, a slight inconvenience. She sighed, pulling a silk handkerchief from her pocket, its delicate fabric as white as fresh snow. With practiced ease, she wiped the crimson away, her movements precise and efficient.

With her free hand, she pulled out her phone, its surface smooth and cold. She dialed a number, her fingers moving with practiced precision.

The moment the line picked up, she didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “It’s done.”

A pause. Then, her tone sharpened, her voice laced with a cold, demanding edge. “Double the payment.”

The voice on the other end stammered, protested. “That wasn’t the deal…”

Leila smirked, flicking the blood from the tip of her blade. “He put up a fight. I got blood on my dress. I charge extra for that.”

A moment of silence, then a reluctant agreement. “Wire transfer confirmed.” She disconnected, pocketing the device with a satisfied click. The rain continued to fall, a relentless, drumming rhythm against the roof of the warehouse.

As she turned to leave, another notification pinged on her device, a soft, electronic chime. A new target.

Sylus, the leader of Onychinus. The smirk on her lips deepened, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. Her fingers twitched, eager for the next kill. The city of N109 belonged to criminals, to kings and queens of the underworld, but she had never feared them.

“Let’s see if the devil can bleed,” she whispered, her voice a soft, deadly promise. The rain continued to fall, washing the blood from the streets, cleansing the city for the next act of violence.

A sudden gust of wind sent the scent of blood and rain swirling through the air. Leila cast one last glance at the cooling corpse at her feet, then slid her dagger back into its sheath with a practiced flick of her wrist. Without urgency, she stepped over the body, her heels clicking against the wet pavement as she melted into the shadows. The city swallowed her whole, the neon haze reflecting off slick streets, painting her silhouette in fleeting streaks of red and gold.

By the time she reached her black Aston Martin, parked discreetly a few blocks away, the atmosphere settled into its usual rhythm.

She slipped behind the wheel, the leather interior cool against her skin, and exhaled slowly. The thrill of the hunt still lingered in her veins, sharp and intoxicating.

By the time she arrived at her penthouse sanctuary, the storm had worsened, sheets of rain hammering against the glass. She stepped inside, leaving behind the world of bloodstained alleys and whispered death, and traded it for silk, whiskey, and the quiet hum of wealth. Now, perched on her velvet chaise, she took a slow sip of whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down her throat.

The penthouse was a stark contrast to the world below, a sanctuary built from obscene wealth. Every inch of it was curated, from the sleek marble floors to the towering glass display cases housing artifacts worth more than entire city blocks. She poured herself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as she settled onto a velvet chaise. The city pulsed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, its heartbeat syncing with her own. But Leila’s focus was on the sleek tablet in her lap, its glow illuminating the name on the screen.

Sylus.

The weight of the bounty was enough to make any assassin pause. It was a number so high, so obscene, that it was less of a payout and more of a challenge. Leila tilted her head, scanning the details. Sylus wasn’t just another target. He is the god of N109, a myth wrapped in flesh and power. He moved without leaving a trace, controlled the city’s darkest corners with an iron grip. People feared him, whispered his name as if it summoned him from the shadows.

They said he had no weaknesses. That just meant no one had encountered him yet. She exhaled slowly, closing the file with a flick of her fingers. Outside, the storm raged on, streaks of lightning illuminating the skyline in violent bursts. The city was restless. Waiting. And so was she.

---

Days turned to a week, Leila spent her days calculating her attack until she finds her chance. The underground gala was a decadent affair—exclusive, secretive, filled with the kind of people who could afford to kill for sport and still sleep soundly at night. It was a room full of wolves, draped in silk and false civility, their power sharper than the crystal chandeliers above. Leila moved through the crowd effortlessly, wearing wealth like a second skin, her disguise impeccable. Her mark was here.

And then—her gaze landed on him.

He was lounging at the bar, a glass of champagne in hand, his silver hair tousled in a way that made it look intentional. He exuded power, the kind that didn’t need to be announced. The kind that made others hesitate before approaching. Their eyes met. A smirk tugged at his lips. A silent acknowledgment. He knew. He had been waiting.

Leila’s pulse remained steady, but inside, her mind recalibrated. Adjusted. Adapted. She slid up beside him, her voice a soft, alluring purr. "Beautiful party."

Sylus tilted his head, red eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Took you long enough."

She stiffened, a crack forming in her carefully constructed facade. He knew exactly who she was. And worse—he was enjoying this. The air between them was charged, a silent standoff disguised as casual conversation. A predator toying with another. Sylus raised his glass, the smirk deepening. "If you’re going to kill me, Siren," he murmured, voice as smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

"At least make it interesting."

The challenge hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown down amidst the glittering facade of the gala. Leila’s eyes, dark and sharp, locked onto Sylus’s. The game had shifted, the rules rewritten by her prey. He wasn’t running, he wasn’t hiding. He was playing.

“Interesting,” she echoed, her voice a low, melodic counterpoint to his. “That can be arranged.” She took a sip of her champagne, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue, a stark contrast to the icy calm that settled over her. “But tell me, Sylus, what constitutes ‘interesting’ for a man who lives in the shadows?”

He chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through her senses. “A fair question, Siren. For me, ‘interesting’ is a dance. A tango of shadows and steel. A game where the stakes are life and death.” He swirled the champagne in his glass, the liquid reflecting the chandelier’s light like liquid rubies. “And where the partners are equally skilled.”

Leila’s lips curved into a predatory smile. “And you believe we are?”

“I wouldn’t have invited you to dance otherwise.” He gestured to the dance floor, where couples swayed to the slow, seductive music. “Care to join me?”

It was a blatant provocation, a taunt disguised as an invitation. He wanted to see her move, to gauge her skill. Leila accepted the challenge. “Lead the way.”

They moved onto the dance floor, a silent ballet of predator and prey. Sylus’s hand, gloved in black leather, rested lightly on her waist, guiding her through the steps. His touch was feather-light, yet it held an undercurrent of steel, a reminder of the power he wielded. As they danced, their conversation continued, a subtle exchange of veiled threats and calculated observations.

“You’re good,” Sylus murmured, his voice a low whisper in her ear. “I’ve studied your work. Efficient. Clean. A ghost.”

“And you,” Leila replied, her eyes never leaving his. “A ghost yourself. A phantom king.”

“We have much in common then,” he said, his red eyes gleaming. “Perhaps too much.”

The music swelled, the rhythm mirroring the tension between them. They moved together, a fluid, graceful dance, each step a calculated move in their deadly game. Leila’s senses were heightened, every muscle coiled, ready to strike. But Sylus was a master of misdirection, his movements unpredictable, his intentions hidden behind a mask of charm. Suddenly, he dipped her, his hand sliding down her back, his fingers brushing against the small of her spine.

Before she could react, he pulled her back up, his smile widening. “Such a shame,” he said, his voice laced with mock regret. “The music’s ending.”

The dance ended, but the game had just begun. Leila’s mind raced, analyzing every movement, every word. He had shown her a glimpse of his power, a taste of the danger she faced. He was playing with her, testing her limits, pushing her to reveal her hand.

“Thank you for the dance, Sylus,” she said, her voice smooth and even. “It was… enlightening.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Siren,” he replied, his red eyes gleaming with amusement. “I look forward to our next encounter.”

He turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Leila standing alone on the dance floor, the echoes of the music fading into the background. She felt a coldness settle over her, a premonition of danger. Sylus wasn’t just a target. He was a force of nature, a predator who relished the hunt. And he was playing for keeps.

She knew then, with a chilling certainty, that this would be no ordinary kill. This was a war. Leila hissed through her teeth. Her prey was in her hands in a dance. Now, he casually disappeared to the crowd. With pure determination, she decided to follow him.

The alleyway, slick with rain and shadowed by the towering buildings, became a stage for a deadly spectacle. Sylus, his silver hair gleaming under the faint neon glow, moved with an unnerving grace, a predator reveling in the hunt. He wasn’t just defending; he was performing, showcasing his power, his Evol.

Leila, her blade a silver flash in the darkness, pressed her attack. She was a whirlwind of motion, her movements precise and lethal. But Sylus, with a casual flick of his wrist, deflected her strikes, his red eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Such passion, Siren.” he purred, his voice a low, melodic drawl. “I can almost taste your desire. Want some help? Yes? No? Maybe so?”

He wasn’t wrong. Every fiber of her being screamed for his death. He was a challenge, an insult to her skill, a target that needed to be eliminated. But as their fight intensified, Sylus’s evol began to manifest. The shadows in the alleyway deepened, writhing and coalescing around him. They weren’t just shadows; they were extensions of his will, tendrils of darkness that moved with an unnatural fluidity.

Leila’s blade sliced through them, but the darkness reformed just as quickly. He was toying with her. Studying her. She pivoted, seeking an opening, but the shadows moved with him, whispering taunts, flickering illusions at the edge of her vision. With calm steps, Sylus approached Leila who is now kneeling on the concrete ground, completely helpless as the shadows flowing out of Sylus's palm forbids her from moving an inch.

“You want to kill me so bad, don’t you?” he asked, kneeling to her level with Leila's chin between his thumb and index finger, his voice a low, seductive whisper. “I can hear it, Siren. The whispers in your mind. ‘Kill him, kill him…’”

Leila’s breath hitched. He wasn’t just reading her movements; he was reading her. A jolt of cold realization rippled through her, but she buried it. Focused. Adapted. She lunged—one decisive strike aimed at his heart—but he moved with impossible speed. Shadows swallowed the distance between them. A hand, gloved and strong, caught her wrist. The grip tightened.

“Such determination,” Sylus murmured, his tone laced with something far too close to admiration. “It’s… intoxicating.”

Leila gritted her teeth, refusing to react. Refusing to give him the satisfaction. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear.

“I enjoy this, Siren,” he whispered. “The thrill of the hunt. The dance of death. Seeing the desire to kill me burning in your eyes. It is exquisite.”

And then, just as suddenly, he released her. Shadows slithered away, retreating as though the fight had never happened. He stepped back, his smirk lazy, his amusement palpable.

“Consider this a lesson,” he said. “You are out of your depth.”

Then he was gone, vanishing into the night, leaving Leila alone in the alleyway. The silence continued to fall, washing away the evidence of their battle—except for the black feather at her feet. A parting gift from Mephisto. A silent taunt.

She exhaled, slow and measured. The devil doesn’t bleed. Not yet. But he will.

Leila returned to her penthouse, the sleek interior glittering skyline doing little to soothe the storm within her. Failure. A rare and bitter taste. The memory of Sylus, his red eyes gleaming with amusement as he toyed with her, burned like a brand. She moved through the meticulously designed space, each step sharp and agitated. The image of his mocking smile, the echo of his taunts, fueled her frustration. A guttural cry tore from her throat, an expression of the rage she refused to suppress. With a violent gesture, she swept a crystal vase from a nearby table, the shattering glass a discordant counterpoint to the city’s hum.

Yet, amidst the anger, a darker current stirred. Sylus’s perverse enjoyment, the thrill he found in their deadly dance, had ignited a dangerous fascination within her. The hunt, once a clinical exercise, had become a personal vendetta, a twisted game she was determined to win.

She sank into the leather chair behind her desk, the city lights reflecting in the polished surface. Her senses, honed by years of training, registered a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. She's not alone anymore. The intrusion shattered the carefully curated tranquility of Leila’s penthouse. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the intent to harm, a tangible pressure against her skin.

Her hand, as if guided by instinct, slid beneath the polished surface of her desk, closing around the hidden blade. She rose, a fluid motion, her movements deceptively graceful despite the precarious height of her stiletto heels. Her eyes, dark and sharp, scanned the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. Three figures materialized, their faces obscured by featureless masks, their weapons – a knife, a silenced pistol, and the power of clenched fists – glinting in the dim light.

Their movements, though practiced, were clumsy compared to her own. Their objective was clear: termination.

Without a second thought, Leila stepped out of her study. The door creating a loud thoud as it hit the wall, startling the intruders. The first attacker, a lean figure wielding a wickedly sharp knife, lunged with a speed that spoke of desperate intent. Leila sidestepped with a fluid grace that defied gravity, her own blade flashing in a swift, predatory arc, leaving a crimson line blooming on his forearm. He hissed, a sound of pain and frustrated rage.

The second, his movements precise and controlled, fired a silenced pistol. The shots, though muffled, still echoed through the room. Leila, her reflexes honed to a razor’s edge, moved like a phantom, her body weaving and dodging, her movements a testament to her years of training.

The third, a hulking figure with the brute strength of a brawler, charged, his fists like battering rams. Leila, her movements a study in controlled violence, used his momentum against him, flipping him over her shoulder. He crashed into a glass display case, the shattering glass a discordant symphony. The impact resonated through the room, a jarring counterpoint to the silent threat that still lingered.

The first attacker, his arm bleeding, lunged again, his rage a palpable force. But Leila, her focus unwavering, disarmed him with a swift, brutal motion, her blade finding its mark – a clean, decisive strike to the throat. She could feel the life draining from him, a chilling sensation, even through the delicate fabric of her heels grounding her.

The second attacker, his pistol now empty, realized the futility of his efforts and attempted to flee. But Leila, her agility was on him in an instant, a blur of deadly grace, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. She seized him by the neck, her grip like iron, and slammed him against the wall, the impact cracking the plaster, a stark reminder of the force she wielded.

The third, still disoriented from his fall, attempted to rise, his eyes wide with a dawning horror. But Leila, her reflexes predicting his every move, ended the fight with clinical efficiency, her blade a final, decisive stroke, her heels planted firmly, her balance unwavering.

She stood over the bodies, her breath ragged, her eyes cold and hard. The fight, messy and visceral, had served its purpose. It was a brutal reminder that even within her own sanctuary, she could be a target. Her heels, now slightly scuffed, were a reminder of her ability to be lethal, even in the most impractical footwear.

She dragged the second attacker, the one still clinging to the fragile thread of consciousness, to a chair. His eyes, wide and terrified, reflected the stark reality of his situation. “Who sent you?” she demanded, her voice a low, menacing growl, each word laced with a chilling undertone. He remained silent, his jaw clenched, fear and defiance battling in his eyes.

Leila’s lips thinned. She grabbed his injured arm, the one she had slammed against the wall, and twisted it sharply. A sharp, agonized cry ripped through the room. "Tell me," she said, her voice dangerously soft, "or I'll find other ways to make you talk."

He still refused. Leila then grabbed his other arm and repeated the previous action, this time a bone audibly snapped.

He screamed, a sound of pure agony. "Alright! Alright! I'll talk!" he gasped, his body trembling.

“Who sent you?” she repeated, her voice laced with icy patience.

He stammered, his words slurred and broken. “No one… I saw… the bounty…”

Leila’s eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing. “The bounty? What bounty?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing nervously. “The one on you… they said… it was huge… everyone’s talking about it… in the underground… They just said, 'The Blackthorn Siren'… and the number… it was a lot."”

“Everyone?” Leila’s voice was a low, dangerous purr. “So, it’s not just you. It’s everyone.”

He nodded, a jerky, terrified movement. “Yes… everyone who heard… everyone who wants the money…”

"And who placed this bounty? Who wants me dead?" Leila asked, her voice dangerously calm.

His eyes darted around the room, fear etched into his features. "Corpus… Corpus Dainhart… they said he wants you gone… and Sylus too…"

A cold realization settled over Leila. Corpus Dainhart. The same individual who had contracted her to eliminate Sylus had also placed a massive bounty on her head, turning her into a target for every opportunistic killer in N109. He wanted her gone, he wanted Sylus gone, and he was willing to pay handsomely for it.

Leila stood amidst the carnage, the echoes of the intruder's screams still ringing in the air. The name "Corpus Dainhart" hung heavy, a dark promise of the conflict to come. The city, already a viper's nest of ambition and violence, had just become a hunting ground, with her as the prize. She released the broken man, his whimpers echoed within the walls. He slumped in the chair, a broken doll, his eyes wide with terror.

The game had changed. It was no longer a simple assassination. It was a war, a three-way dance of death, and she was caught in the center. Corpus Dainhart, a puppeteer pulling strings from the shadows, wanted her and Sylus eliminated, clearing the stage for his own ascent. The entire underworld, lured by the promise of a hefty bounty, was now a ravenous pack, eager to tear her apart. And Sylus… he was a wild card, a predator who relished the hunt, a force as unpredictable as the city itself.

She also needed to prepare. The bounty on her head meant she couldn't rely on her usual safe houses, her usual routines. She was a marked woman, hunted in every shadow. She needed to disappear, to become a ghost, even more elusive than she already was. She needed to move, and she needed to move fast. As she thought, a cold, calculating fury settled over her. Corpus Dainhart had made a grave mistake. He had underestimated her. He had turned her into a cornered predator, and cornered predators were the most dangerous of all.

She would find him. She would dismantle his network, piece by piece, until he was left with nothing. And then, she would make him pay. And Sylus… she wouldn't forget him. He was a challenge, a dangerous obsession, but he was also a key.

She turned back to the broken man, his eyes still wide with terror. "I'm feeling like being exceptionally nice tonight," she said, her voice a low, almost playful purr, a stark contrast to the violence that had just transpired. "So why don't you go to your underground friends, tell them about tonight's story with the Blackthorn Siren, okay? Tell them how I let you walk away. Tell them… I'm not to be trifled with."

He nodded frantically, scrambling to his feet, his movements jerky and panicked. Without another word, he scurried out of the penthouse, disappearing into the shadows of the city.

The city lights outside painted the room in a cold, artificial glow. She looked out at the sprawling cityscape, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. However, the air in the penthouse, once a sanctuary, now felt thick with the scent of betrayal. Leila, stripped of her usual comforts, relied on her instincts, her senses honed to a razor's edge. She was a lone wolf, cornered and fighting for survival.

Panic, a rare emotion for Leila, began to gnaw at the edges of her composure. She was isolated, hunted, and facing an enemy far more powerful than she initially anticipated. Corpus Dainhart had unleashed a wave of chaos, turning the city into a hunting ground and she was the deer. Desperation, a cold, calculating emotion, began to take hold. She needed an ally, someone with the power to counter Corpus Dainhart's influence, someone who understood the game as well as she did.

And then, she thought of Sylus.

The memory of their encounter, the dance of death in the alleyway, the unsettling amusement in his eyes, flashed before her. He was a predator, a force of nature, a king in this city of shadows. He is also her enemy, a target, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could be an unlikely ally. The thought was audacious, bordering on insanity. But the alternative was bleak. She was facing annihilation, and she needed a powerful ally, someone who could navigate this treacherous landscape as expertly as she could.

Connecting with Sylus was a dangerous gamble, a calculated risk but the stakes were too high to hesitate.

---

Leila's penthouse, a monument to her vanished existence, reeked of phantom violence. The shattered glass, reflecting the neon-drenched cityscape, served as a macabre mosaic of fractured memories. The bodies, like her old life, were gone, scrubbed from reality by the cold precision of her evol. Only the echoes remained, a silent testament to the brutal efficiency of her departure.

She inhaled, the air thick with the metallic ghost of blood, and exhaled, the tension leaving her in a slow, deliberate wave. Her evol had already worked its magic, smoothing over the carnage, blurring the lines of reality until nothing remained—no struggle, no trace. She was a void, a whisper in the wind.

And so, with hands still bearing the invisible stain of violence, she stepped into the neon-drenched streets of N109, unhidden, defiant. The city watched, a million eyes in the darkness. She sensed them before she saw them—the predators drawn by the scent of blood money, the bounty hunters and assassins lurking in the shadows. Their movements were cautious, their patience fraying, their greed a palpable hunger. She allowed them their anticipation, their desperate hope.

Then, she sang.

A low hum, a haunting melody, slipped from her lips, threading through the city's cacophony like a silken thread through coarse fabric. It was a warning, a siren's call, a lullaby for the damned.

Come if you dare.

And they did.

The first attacker, a shadow leaping from an alleyway, moved with practiced brutality. Leila, a predator in her own right, didn't break stride. A swift, almost casual twist of her wrist, the flash of a hidden blade, and his throat bloomed crimson.

The hum continued, a chilling counterpoint to the gurgling death throes.

A second assailant, a silent predator from behind, lunged with deadly intent. Leila pivoted, a fluid, almost graceful movement, her dagger slipping between his ribs with surgical precision. He gasped, his lifeblood spilling onto the rain-slicked pavement.

The song remained, a haunting testament to her lethal grace.

Then came the third. A woman.

Leila turned, her breath slow and measured, her eyes cold and unwavering. The attacker was young—too young. Hesitation clung to her like a shroud, her grip on the blade unsteady, fingers trembling in the neon glow. Wide eyes met hers. Not with the sharp resolve of a killer, but with a dawning horror. Leila saw it—the fear, the doubt, the chilling realization that she had stepped into a predator’s den. She was a lamb among wolves, and she knew it.

Leila’s humming faded, swallowed by the thick silence between them.

She lifted her dagger, its blood-warmed tip hovering inches from the woman’s throat. The would-be assassin froze, her body rigid, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Leila could end it. One movement. One precise strike. It would be easy. Expected.

But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned in, her voice a low, velvet whisper. “You don’t want to do this.” A beat. A choice. “Run.”

The woman staggered back, pulse hammering against her skin, before she turned and disappeared into the city’s labyrinthine alleys. Leila didn’t watch her go. She had already made her decision.

It wasn’t mercy. It was control. And that made her something far more dangerous.

Leila moved through the city’s underbelly like a phantom, her evol unraveling every trace of her presence before it could even exist. No footsteps echoed. No scent lingered. No breath stirred the air. She is able to erase her existence through the traces she could have left in a blink of an eye with her evol, which made her a ghost. The night swallowed her whole, leaving only the faintest whisper of a presence that never was. The Onychinus base loomed ahead—a fortress of power, crawling with guards, sensors, and security measures designed to catch even the most elusive intruders but Leila didn’t need to sneak. She didn’t need to dodge.

She simply walked.

The cameras turned, but saw nothing. The motion sensors blinked, yet detected no movement. The guards shifted uneasily, sensing something—an itch at the back of their minds, a shadow at the edge of their vision—but found only empty space. She was a ghost in the machine, a glitch in reality itself. Inside, the corridors pulsed with quiet danger, the air thick with the weight of unseen power. She slipped between the cracks of perception, her evol weaving silence into the spaces she passed through.

And when she reached the command center, she found them waiting, the infamous twins under Sylus's commands, Luke and Kieran. "Well, well," Luke drawled, tilting his head. "Look what the cat dragged in."

"The Blackthorn Siren," Kieran murmured, his voice filled with amusement. "Paying us a visit. How unexpected."

"Looking for Sylus, are we?" Luke’s voice held a note of dark amusement, his gaze flickering to the blood on her hands, the bruises forming beneath her skin.

"He said you’d come crawling," Kieran added, voice smooth as silk.

Leila’s pulse remained steady. She had no illusions about what she was walking into. This was a game of wolves and she was stepping right into their den. "Take me to him," she said, her voice cold. Unwavering. Luke exhaled a slow, low whistle. Kieran’s chuckle deepened.

"As you wish," Luke murmured. “But be warned, Siren. This is his game.”

"And he always wins." Kieran’s continued.

Leila scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive, as she slid her well-worn dagger back into the holster strapped to her thigh. The movement was fluid, practiced, a testament to the countless times she'd performed the action. "I don't care," she stated, her voice flat, devoid of any pretense of fear or respect. "I'm not here for a game that he can win. I'm here for something else."

Her eyes, dark and unwavering, met the twins' amused gazes. She wasn't intimidated by their synchronized menace, their carefully crafted display of power. She was a predator in her own right, and she knew the difference between a threat and a performance.

"And what, pray tell," Luke drawled, his voice laced with mocking curiosity, "could be so important that it brings the Blackthorn Siren to our doorstep?"

"Information," Leila replied, her voice clipped and precise. "Information that Sylus possesses. Information regarding Corpus Dainhart. Given his connections, his eyes and ears everywhere, he knows quite a bit about the man, I presume."

Kieran's amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of suspicion. "Dainhart? What business could you possibly have with him?"

"Business that concerns Sylus as much as it concerns me," Leila stated, her eyes narrowing. "He's playing a dangerous game, and he's using both of us as pawns."

"And you think boss would just give you this information?" Luke asked, his tone incredulous. "Just like that?"

"I don't expect him to 'give' me anything," Leila said, her voice laced with a hint of steel. "I expect him to recognize a mutually beneficial arrangement when he sees one. Dainhart is a threat to his control, just as he is to my… autonomy. And I suspect Sylus values his position too much to let someone like Dainhart disrupt it."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a silent glance, a flicker of communication passing between them that Leila couldn't quite decipher. They were weighing her words, assessing the risk, calculating the potential gain. It was a dangerous dance, a negotiation between predators.

"And what guarantees do we have that you won't turn on us the moment you get what you want?" Kieran asked, his eyes narrowed.

"My word," Leila replied, her voice flat, devoid of any hint of deception. "And the understanding that Dainhart's downfall benefits us all. I'm not interested in playing games. I'm interested in survival."

"Survival?" Luke scoffed. "You make it sound like you're the one in danger."

A tense silence descended upon the room, the only sound the low hum of the base's machinery. The twins were still hesitant, their distrust a palpable force in the air.

"Fine," Luke finally said, his voice laced with reluctant agreement. "We'll take you to Sylus. But don't think for a moment that we trust you."

Leila replied, her voice cold and steady. "Just get me to him."

Kieran nodded, his eyes still wary. "Follow us."

They led her through a labyrinth of corridors, deeper into the heart of Onychinus's base. The atmosphere shifted, the air growing thick with a sense of hidden power. They were entering Sylus's domain, a place where the rules were his and his alone. As they approached a heavy, reinforced door, Luke turned to her, his eyes glinting with a predatory amusement. "Be warned, Siren," he said. "Boss is unpredictable and he has a flair for the dramatic."

The doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit chamber, its walls lined with screens displaying a network of information. At the far end of the room, Sylus sat in a high-backed chair, his silver hair gleaming in the low light. He turned to face her, his red eyes glowing with an almost unsettling intensity.

"After you," Kieran said, stepping aside with a theatrical sweep of his hand.

Leila didn’t move immediately. She knew better than to trust any invitation from Onychinus but hesitation was weakness, and she’d already lost too much ground. So, with steady steps, she walked forward, crossing the threshold into Sylus’s domain. The room was bathed in shadows, the only light coming from a series of screens lining the walls—surveillance feeds, city maps, fluctuating data streams. At the far end, a figure stood by the window, overlooking N109.

His silhouette was sharp against the neon glow outside, the faintest reflection of his mechanical crow, Mephisto, glinting in the glass. He didn’t turn as she entered.

"I was beginning to wonder," Sylus murmured, his voice like silk over steel. "How long before you accepted the inevitable?"

Leila kept her stance firm, ignoring the way the room felt like it was closing in. "And what would that be?"

"That we were always meant to cross paths like this."

Finally, he turned. Crimson eyes met hers. Unreadable. Measuring. The corner of his mouth curved in a smirk, but there was something else beneath it—something more dangerous.

"You came to kill me, Siren. But now you’re here, wounded, hunted." His gaze flicked to the blood drying on her skin. "And instead of finishing the job, you’re standing in my abode, asking for something." His voice dipped lower, amused. "What shall I make of that?"

Leila clenched her jaw. She didn’t want to be here but survival demanded it. "Whoever hired me to kill you has now put a price on my head as well," she said, forcing the words out evenly. "Someone wants both of us gone."

Sylus tilted his head, considering. Then, he chuckled. A dark, knowing sound.

"Ah. Now this… this is interesting." He took a step closer, slow, deliberate. "Tell me, Siren," he murmured, eyes gleaming like a predator sizing up its prey. "How badly do you want to survive?"

Leila held her ground as Sylus closed the distance between them. His presence was suffocating—controlled, calculated, a predator who already knew he had the upper hand. But she wasn’t prey.

“I don’t need your help to survive,” she said, her voice sharp, unwavering. “I just need to know where Dainhart is.”

Sylus hummed, his red gaze unreadable as shadows flickered at his fingertips, curling and shifting like living ink. “You think I’d hand you that information for free?” Mephisto fluttered onto his shoulder, its feathers rubbing against the fabric of his coat. The crow's unblinking stare bore into her, an eerie mirror of its master’s amusement.

“I think,” Leila said, stepping forward—closing the space between them instead of retreating, “that you’re just as interested in this as I am.”

A beat of silence. Then—Sylus smiled. Slow. Indulgent. Dangerous. “And why is that?”

Leila exhaled, slow and measured. She couldn’t afford to play this game recklessly, but she also couldn’t afford to let him control the board. “Because someone wants you gone. Not just weakened, not just wounded. Erased. You and your empire.” Her voice dipped lower, testing him. “That doesn’t worry you?”

Sylus let the silence stretch, tension coiling in the air like a blade poised to strike. Then—shadows erupted from his fingertips.

Before Leila could react, the red and black tendrils lashed around her wrists, twisting like silk but with the grip of iron. A sudden pull—and she was lifted off the ground, drawn toward him, her boots hovering inches above the floor.

Leila’s breath hitched, but her expression remained cold. Unshaken. A lazy smirk curved Sylus’s lips as he tipped his head, his voice a velvet whisper.

“Oh, kitten,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with something wicked. “You assume too much.” The shadows shifted, forcing her closer—until the space between them was a mere breath. “Worry?” His voice was a whisper of steel and silk. “I am thrilled.”

Leila clenched her fists, her instincts screaming at her to fight—but before she could, the doors behind them slammed open.

The spell broke. The shadows unraveled, and she dropped lightly to the ground just as Luke and Kieran stepped in, their usual amusement gone.

“Boss,” Kieran said, voice clipped. “We have a problem.”

Sylus sighed, as if annoyed at the interruption. He turned, casting a glance at the flickering security feed behind him. Leila followed his gaze—and her pulse spiked. Figures in the darkness. Armed. Moving in. A breach. And at the head of it—a man she recognized. A high-ranking enforcer from the very organization that had put a bounty on both their heads. Sylus glanced back at her, his smirk returning—pleased, amused, utterly unbothered.

“Well,” he mused, cracking his knuckles as the air around him hummed with raw energy. “Shall we?”

Leila’s jaw tightened, tension coiling within her like a blade drawn taut. The intrusion was a declaration of war—a calculated strike meant to fracture, to destabilize. But she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“We,” she corrected, voice cold and precise, “will deal with this. But I’m not playing by your rules, Sylus.”

She moved before he could respond, a whisper of death in the chaos. The first wave of attackers breached the perimeter, weapons spitting fire and steel. Leila cut through them like a phantom, her blade a blur, her strikes surgical. No wasted movement. No hesitation. She didn’t fight for spectacle. She fought to end. Bodies hit the ground before they could register their deaths. Their final gasps lost in the cacophony of battle.

Sylus watched, red eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Not concern. Not urgency. Amusement. He moved differently—languid, deliberate. A conductor orchestrating destruction with the flick of a hand. Luke and Kieran were a synchronized storm, tearing through the invaders with lethal efficiency. The Onychinus twins—flawless in execution, effortless in precision.

The battle was over in minutes. Leila exhaled, blade still gripped tight as silence settled over the room. The only thing left was the scent of blood and the bodies littering the floor. Sylus turned to her, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips. “Impressive.” His voice was indulgent. Amused. Satisfied.

Leila met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not here for praise.”

“No.” His smile deepened. “You’re here for something far more interesting.”

She didn’t bother with preamble. “Corpus Dainhart. I need everything you know. His movements. His resources. His weaknesses.”

Sylus studied her, curiosity flickering in his gaze. Then, he hummed. “Information is a costly thing, kitten. It requires… investment." He gestured lazily to the room around them—the security feeds, the intricate network of Onychinus laid bare in glowing screens.

“Stay,” he said smoothly. “Work for me. Onychinus will be your sanctuary. You’ll have access to my intel, my resources… my protection.” He stepped closer, his voice dipping into something silkier. “We both want Dainhart gone. You and I together? That’s a war he won’t survive.”

Leila’s grip on her blade didn’t loosen. She knew exactly what this was. A test. A leash wrapped in the guise of an offer.

“I don’t work for anyone.” The words came out sharp, unyielding.

Sylus chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. “No. But you need me.”

Leila said nothing… because he was right. She could run but every bounty hunter, every assassin, every opportunist in the city was hunting her. There was nowhere left to go as her fortress has been infiltrated earlier tonight and Sylus—his fortress, his power, his influence—was untouchable.

Survival versus autonomy. A necessary trade. She exhaled slowly. “What are the terms?”

Sylus’s smile was razor-sharp. “You work within Onychinus until Dainhart is dead. You operate as you see fit, but you answer to me and you trust me.”

Leila scoffed. “Trust is a luxury I don’t afford.”

Sylus’s gaze burned into hers. “Then consider this an alliance of necessity. A means to an end. You want Dainhart gone?” His voice was velvet and steel. “I’ll give you the weapons to destroy him but you don’t get to fight this war alone.”

Leila held his gaze. The deal was a devil’s gamble but the devil she could see was better than the one in the shadows.

“…Fine.”

Sylus’s smile was slow, deliberate—the kind that meant he’d already known her answer before she spoke it.

“Smart choice, kitten.” His voice was smooth, edged with something almost amused. “Try not to make me regret it.”

Leila sheathed her blade, but the tension in her stance never eased. “That makes two of us.”

---

The water ran hot. Scalding. Just the way she needed it. Leila braced her hands against the cool marble of the shower wall, letting the steady stream drum against her skin, washing away the filth of the night. Blood swirled in delicate crimson ribbons at her feet, vanishing down the drain as if it had never been there at all. She exhaled, slow and controlled, rolling her shoulders beneath the punishing heat. Her muscles ached, not from exhaustion—she was used to pushing her body beyond its limits—but from the weight of the choice she had made.

A deal with Sylus.

Her fingers curled into fists. The devil’s hand had closed around her, and she had let it. The night’s carnage clung to her in more ways than one. Not just in the blood that streaked her skin, but in the way her mind replayed every strike, every kill, every calculated decision. Efficiency, precision, survival—she had never fought for sport, only to end. And tonight, she had ended many.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She reached for the soap, running it over the faint scrapes lining her arms, the phantom burns left by too-close gunfire, the bruises that would darken by morning. It stung, but pain had always been a familiar thing. A grounding thing. She tilted her head back, letting the water cascade over her face, drowning out the thoughts she didn’t want to entertain.

There was no turning back now.

When she finally shut the water off, steam curled around her like a phantom’s embrace. Wrapping a towel around her, she stepped out into the dimly lit bedroom—the one Sylus had given her. Dark, sleek, and draped in shadow, it was more fortress than sanctuary. The silk sheets were neat, the candles along the bedside table flickering lazily, casting elongated shadows against the walls. A bookshelf loomed in the corner, filled with stories left unread. A room built for someone who knew how to disappear.

Fitting. She barely had a moment to process before she sensed another presence.

Sylus stood near the doorway, effortlessly at ease, his sharp red gaze taking her in like she was yet another puzzle piece he intended to fit into his grand design. In his hand, he held a neatly folded set of clothes—dark, understated, but expensive.

“Didn’t peg you as the modest type,” she drawled, keeping her grip on the towel firm.

Sylus smirked. “Consider it a gesture of hospitality.” He stepped forward, placing the clothes on the bed with the same careful deliberation he used for everything. “I’ll have a proper wardrobe arranged for you in the morning.”

Leila arched a brow, amusement flickering beneath the lingering exhaustion. “Generous. But unnecessary.” She moved past him, plucking the shirt from the pile and holding it up. The fabric was soft, expensive—worn just enough to lose its stiffness. It smelled faintly of smoke and something darker, something undeniably him.

She huffed a quiet laugh. “These are yours.”

Sylus’s smirk was lazy, deliberate. “You’d prefer I raid the twins’ closets instead?”

Leila scoffed, shaking her head as she tossed the shirt back onto the bed. “I’ll manage and don’t bother with the wardrobe. I can buy my own.”

Sylus hummed, tilting his head slightly as if assessing the statement. “Of course you can,” he said, tone smooth, indulgent. “But it’s not about what you can do, kitten. It’s about what’s efficient. And I prefer efficiency.”

Leila met his gaze, unwavering. “And I prefer autonomy.”

Something flickered in his eyes—interest, amusement, maybe both. Then, a slow nod. “Noted.”

Satisfied, she turned away, dismissing him with the gesture. But Sylus lingered a moment longer, watching. Calculating.

Then, just as smoothly as he had entered, he took his leave. Leila let out a slow breath, fingers brushing the soft fabric of the borrowed clothes. Leila ran the towel through her damp hair, sighing as the tension in her muscles slowly unwound. The hot shower had washed away the grime, sweat, and blood of the night, leaving behind only the dull ache of exhaustion. Dressed in his shirt—because practicality outweighed pride—she padded barefoot across the room, instinctively checking the locks before settling into her usual routine.

A flick of her knife, the familiar weight spinning between her fingers. A quick check of her weapons, reloading where needed. A final sweep of the space, mapping exits, ensuring everything was exactly where she left it.

Satisfied, she slipped beneath the sheets. The bed was softer than what she was used to—luxurious, even—but sleep came quickly, pulling her under before she could linger on the strange comfort of it.

---

A knock. Then the distant murmur of voices outside her door. Leila's eyes snapped open. Instinct took over—silent, swift. A blade was in her hand before she was fully awake. She moved without sound, pressing to the side of the doorway as she listened. No immediate threats. No gunfire, no forced entry. Just… something being set down.

A beat. Then footsteps retreating. She exhaled slowly, lowering the knife before cracking the door open.

And stopped.

Her bedroom floor was buried in shopping bags. Luxurious. High-end. Every brand that screamed wealth and excess. Shoes—boots, heels, combat-grade and couture. Dresses that shimmered even in the low morning light. Leather jackets, silk blouses, workout gear. Even loungewear, absurdly soft-looking and undoubtedly expensive. Leila dragged a hand down her face.

What. The. Hell.

She crouched, rifling through one of the bags, pulling out a sleek black dress that felt like sin between her fingers. Another held a pair of gloves—reinforced, combat-ready.

Of course.

She didn’t need to guess who was behind this. She stood, threw on a fresh set of clothes, and stormed out the door. She found Sylus exactly where she expected—lounging in his private study, nursing a drink, looking far too pleased with himself.

Leila crossed her arms. “I assume you have an explanation for the disaster currently occupying my room.”

Sylus glanced at her, amused. “A disaster? Interesting choice of words, kitten.” He set his glass down. “I’d call it thoughtful.”

She exhaled sharply. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

“You didn’t have to.” He leaned back, gaze sweeping over her. “You need a wardrobe. Unless, of course, you plan to keep parading around in my clothes?” His smirk deepened. “Not that I’d mind. Or, you know—” his voice dropped, teasing, “you could always go without.”

Leila’s brow twitched. Sylus chuckled. “Ah, there it is.” He tilted his head. “Admit it, kitten. You’d rather be dressed well than suffer through wearing my shirts every night.”

She scoffed. “I can buy my own.”

Sylus lifted a brow. “I don't doubt that but you’d prefer what? Strolling through the outdoors while all of the black market wants your head?”

Leila rolled her eyes. “I’ve handled worse.”

“Of course you have.” He gestured lazily toward the door. “Keep what you want. Burn the rest.”

Leila narrowed her eyes, scanning his expression. This wasn’t just about convenience—it was a calculated move. Control, disguised as care. She hated it.

And yet… Her gaze flicked to the shopping bags still visible through the open door. Leila exhaled sharply. “Fine.” She turned on her heel. She didn’t miss the way Sylus’s smirk deepened. But later, as she shoved the bags into the corner of her room, she did keep the all of them.

Because damn it, they were nice. Sylus does have a sense of style.

Leila doesn’t waste the morning entertaining Sylus’s antics. After begrudgingly accepting the wardrobe situation, she gears up, determined to make use of Onychinus’s resources for what she actually needs—information on Corpus Dainhart. But Sylus? He has other plans. Before she can vanish into her own agenda, Sylus intercepts her at breakfast. He’s already waiting in the dining lounge, looking infuriatingly unbothered as he drinks his coffee. The Onychinus compound is a well-oiled machine, members moving in and out, all under his command.

Sylus gestures to the seat across from him, smirking. “Sit. Eat. We talk.”

Leila has spent years operating alone, not answering to anyone. The idea of reporting in, of being treated like one of Sylus’s subordinates, grated on her nerves like sandpaper. But she sat, her movements stiff and controlled, if only because she needed what he knew.

“Talk about what?” she asked, voice sharp, devoid of pleasantries. “I have information to gather.”

“Information gathering can wait,” Sylus replied, smooth and unhurried. “Breakfast cannot. You need sustenance, kitten and I need to ensure you don’t pass out before we get to the fun part.”

Leila exhaled through her nose, unimpressed, but picked up a fork regardless. The spread before her was elaborate—fresh fruit, warm bread, eggs, meats cooked to perfection. Sylus ate like a king, and it seemed he extended that luxury to her. She didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust him… yet.

Still, she ate. Efficiency over pride. Sylus took his time sipping his coffee, watching her with an amusement that made her want to throw the steaming cup at his face. “We have an engagement to attend to,” he said finally, setting his mug down with a soft clink. “An auction. Private. Exclusive.”

Leila spoke as she cut the food on her plate without looking up. “And?”

“And one of Corpus Dainhart’s men will be there.”

Now she did look at him. Sylus’s smirk deepened at the interest flickering in her gaze. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out like this was just another morning, just another conversation that didn’t involve calculated murder.

“One of his top enforcers—Davenport—is handling a transaction there. Expensive wares, more than just weapons. He’s attending in person.” Sylus tilted his head. “We could ambush him outside, but I thought you might prefer a little more… theatrics.”

Leila wiped her mouth with the linen napkin before setting it down. “Let me guess. I’m the bait.”

“You’re perfect bait.” His tone was too pleased. “Davenport is eager to rid the world of you. Bounties make men sloppy especially when it on a attractive lady. He’ll come to you like a moth to the flame.”

She considered that. Luring a mark was something she’d done a hundred times over, though the idea of working in tandem with him still sat uneasily in her chest.

Sylus must have noticed the flicker of hesitation because he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll be there, too. Just not by your side.”

Leila arched a brow. “So you get to sit back while I handle everything?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of missing the fun. I’ll just be waiting for the right moment to cut in.”

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping idly against the rim of her coffee cup. “You mentioned theatrics,” she said, eyeing him. “I don’t walk into places blind. I need details.”

Sylus didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew something sleek and unassuming—a black envelope, its surface matte, its edges crisp. With a deliberate slowness, he placed it on the table between them, his fingers lingering for just a second too long before sliding away.

Leila glanced at it, then back at him. Sylus leaned back on his chair, watching her with a glint of amusement. “Consider this your official invitation.”

She plucked it off the table, turning it between her fingers. No markings, no insignias. But the weight of it—the unspoken promise it carried—was enough. A place like that didn’t need to flaunt its exclusivity. Leila ran her nail along the edge, breaking the seal. Inside, a single card, deep onyx with lettering embossed in silver: Vermillion Hall. Private Auction. Entry Non-Transferable. No date, no time. Which meant that those who were invited already knew.

She exhaled, pressing the card between her fingers. “Onychinus has had access to this little event for years.”

Sylus smirked. “Would you expect anything less?”

No, she wouldn’t. She flicked the card back onto the table. “What’s the security like?”

“Tight,” he admitted, but there was no concern in his voice. “Armed guards. Restricted access beyond the main hall. No weapons allowed past the second floor, but I imagine that won’t be a problem for someone with the ability to erase all her tracks, physical, mental, or digital.”

Leila hummed. No, it wouldn’t be. “And Davenport?”

“He won’t be selling,” Sylus said, drumming his fingers against the table. “He’s there for a different kind of business. And when he sees you, that business will change very quickly.”

She leaned forward slightly, her smirk edged with something sharper. “Good. I like it when men make mistakes.”

Sylus’s lips curled, amusement flickering in his silver eyes. “I knew you’d say that.” He leaned back, exuding effortless confidence. “You have three weeks.” He paused, then added, “I’ll let you handle this your way. You have the money—you decide what you wear. I’ll bring in a high-end tailor, someone exceptional, to the base. But beyond that?” He shrugged, the gesture lazy yet deliberate. “It’s all yours.”

Leila’s lips parted slightly, a hint of teasing in her eyes. “And what happens if I fail to impress?” she asked, her voice laced with a dangerous undertone. Sylus’s smile turned sharp. “Then you’ll have wasted three weeks and a perfectly good tailor.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “Don’t waste my time, Leila.”

---

Sylus's Mercedes glided to a halt outside the auction venue. Its sleek lines and understated elegance spoke of wealth and power.

Sylus emerged first, his movements fluid and precise, a predator surveying his domain. He rounded the car, his gaze lingering on Leila as she prepared to exit. He extended a hand, an offer she took. She stepped out of the passenger seat, the slit of her dress revealing the elegant length of her legs as she adjusted the fabric, her movements a study in controlled grace. She felt his gaze, a silent appraisal that raked over her, but he offered no comment. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, a silent battle of wills.

The building before them was a monument to opulence. Tall, with blackened glass windows that reflected the lights outside, it emitted a subtle golden glow, a beacon in the night. This was no ordinary auction; it was a private event, a gathering of the city's most influential criminals, their wealth and power concealed beneath a veneer of civility. The perfect stage to lure their target.

As they entered, the interior unfolded into a long, opulent hallway, a gallery of illicit treasures. Protocores, each encased in reinforced glass and displayed like priceless artifacts, lined the walls. The bidding was silent, electronic, each guest logging their offers on sleek black tablets positioned beside each core. Leila barely spared them a glance, her focus already shifting to the task at hand. The weight of the night's mission settled on her shoulders, a heavy cloak of anticipation and danger.

Then, with a casual grace that belied his predatory nature, Sylus reached up and slipped an earpiece into her ear, his fingers brushing against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. His voice, a low whisper that curled around the words like a ghost, echoed in her ear.

"I assume you already know how to act as good bait."

Leila didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened slightly. He was testing her, always pushing her limits, probing for weaknesses. She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze, their proximity almost intimate, the air between them charged with a dangerous energy.

"Stay frosty," she replied, her voice low and steady, "it's showtime."

A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of Sylus’ lips, a silent acknowledgment of the game they were about to play. Sylus and Leila moved through the crowd like shadows, silent and deliberate. The auction hall was dimly lit, the gleam of the protocores casting an eerie glow over the sea of well-dressed criminals, warlords, and high-ranking syndicate members.

Leila felt Sylus’s presence beside her, unwavering, commanding, even in the hush of their approach. Then, as they reached the midpoint of the hall, he halted.

“This is where we part,” he murmured, his voice brushing against her ear like silk over steel. Before she could step away, his fingers ghosted over her jawline, a brief, deliberate touch as he adjusted the earpiece he had slipped on her earlier.

“Don’t forget,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “You’re the bait. Keep him close. Keep him distracted. And don’t get yourself killed.”

Leila arched a brow. “You'd miss me if I die.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Before she could retort, he was gone, disappearing into the throng like smoke dissolving into the air. Leila exhaled, composing herself, before scanning the room. She didn’t have to look for long. Davenport was already watching her. His eyes gleamed with recognition. The bounty had done its work—her face was well known, and the price on her head was enough to make any man greedy.

She met his gaze, tilting her head slightly, letting her lips curve into the faintest ghost of a smirk before she turned and walked away. She didn’t need to check if he was following. He was. Leila kept her pace measured, her posture poised but effortless. The key was in the invitation—not too eager, not too obvious. Just enough to make him think he was the one in control.

She weaved through the crowd, pausing here and there to feign interest in the displayed protocores, her fingers skimming the bid interfaces without placing a single offer. She could feel Davenport behind her, closing the distance in slow, deliberate steps.

A lesser assassin might have tensed under the weight of his attention. But Leila? She welcomed it.

When she finally slipped past the auction floor and into a dimly lit side corridor, she cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder. Davenport was right where she wanted him. He followed, his approach silent but confident. "Didn't think I'd see the infamous Blackthorn Siren waltzing around so openly," he murmured. His voice was smooth, laced with amusement—and something darker.

Leila let out a soft chuckle, turning to face him fully. "Maybe I got tired of running."

His smile was all teeth. "That so?"

She gave him a slow, unreadable look, every inch of her body language designed to lure him in just a little closer. The plan was simple: keep him occupied, keep him talking, and let Sylus do the rest but Davenport had other ideas. Before she could react, a sharp, electric crackle filled the air. Pain surged through her body as a stun device pressed against her ribs, sending violent currents through her nerves. Leila barely bit back a gasp as her limbs gave out, her vision blurring at the edges. She hit the cold metal wall behind her, her body unresponsive, her Evol useless under the effects of the shock.

Davenport leaned in, his breath warm against her ear as he chuckled. "Got you." His fingers trailed down her arm, slow, deliberate.

Leila's mind burned with fury, but her body refused to move. Her breathing was shallow, her muscles locked in the aftermath of the stun. Davenport clicked his tongue. "Shame about that bounty. Would’ve been easy to turn you in." He traced the edge of her collarbone. "But I have a few ideas before we get to that part."

Leila’s body screamed at her to move, and she obeyed. Even with the residual sting of the first shock, her instincts took over the moment Davenport loosened his grip. She twisted sharply, one leg snapping up to smash her knee into his ribs. His breath hitched, and she used that split-second opening to wrench herself free.

Davenport stumbled back with a low grunt, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze. “Oh, you’ve got fight in you,” he mused, rolling his shoulders as if testing for damage.

Leila didn’t waste time on a response. She lunged, swift and lethal. Her fist struck out—aiming for his throat—but he caught her wrist at the last moment, twisting it painfully. She spun with the momentum, using her other hand to drive her knuckles into his jaw. He staggered, but she wasn’t done. A sharp heel to his knee—then a precise elbow strike to his temple.

He cursed under his breath, momentarily thrown off balance. She could end this now. All she had to do was—

The second shock hit before she could react.

A brutal crackle of electricity surged through her spine, her body seizing up as she gasped involuntarily. Davenport had anticipated her counterattack. Pain spiderwebbed through her limbs as her knees buckled. She collapsed against the wall, breath shuddering, her muscles refusing to cooperate.

Davenport clicked his tongue, crouching before her. “Twice in one night. Maybe you’re not as untouchable as they say.”

Leila’s vision blurred at the edges, but her mind stayed sharp. She had to get up. Had to move before—

Another jolt.

This time, the world tilted. White-hot agony licked up her spine, forcing a strangled sound from her throat. Her body betrayed her completely. She slumped, muscles locked, limbs useless.

Davenport’s fingers curled under her chin, tilting her head up. He studied her, his grin widening. "That’s better."

Leila's breath came in sharp, uneven gasps when Davenport slammed her body on the wall. Her body refused to obey her commands, every nerve still quivered from the electrical shock. Davenport’s grip on her chin was firm but unhurried, his thumb grazing along her jaw in a mockery of something tender. "You’re quite the elusive little ghost, aren’t you?" he murmured, tilting her face toward the dim light. "Never thought I'd get the chance to see you up close before someone else cashed in."

A slow chill crawled down her spine, different from the aftershock of the stun. She had seen this look before. It wasn’t just the bounty he was interested in.

No.

A flicker of something violent surged through her chest. She forced her fingers to curl, nails biting into her palm. Move. She commanded her body, but it refused, still locked in the stun’s aftermath. Davenport leaned in, his breath fanning against her skin as he whispered, “What a shame, really. Someone as pretty as you, wasted on a life of running and killing.” His fingers drifted, brushing the exposed skin of her collarbone, his touch lingering—

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Move, damn it.

Her mind screamed, but her limbs remained frozen. Davenport’s smirk deepened at her silence. "Ah… that's better. Not so untouchable now, are you?" His fingers trailed lower until…

Davenport’s breaths turned ragged as he felt himself unraveling. The shadowy force coiled around his body, threading through his veins like liquid fire. He tried to fight it, to push back against the unnatural pull, but his limbs refused to obey. His knees buckled, his fingers spasmed—his very existence trembled at the edges.

Sylus took a slow step forward, unbothered, unhurried. The glow in his iris intensified, threading through the dimly lit corridor like ghostly blood-tinted veins. "Dainhart." His voice was smooth, deliberate. "Where is he?"

Davenport let out a sharp, ragged laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Go to hell. You think you can just turn your back on Dainhart?”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, and the pressure intensified. Davenport’s back arched as a fresh wave of pain ripped through him. It wasn’t a sharp, sudden agony—it was slow, invasive, like something was unraveling him thread by thread. His breath hitched, his legs buckled, but still, he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to hold out. Sylus remained patient.

He took a measured step closer, eyes gleaming with that eerie, crimson glow. “You’re making this difficult.”

Davenport’s body convulsed. His fingers clawed uselessly at the wall behind him, searching for some kind of grip, some kind of anchor to reality. He could feel himself slipping. His heartbeat stuttered—too fast, too erratic—his vision blurred at the edges. And still, Sylus waited.

A cruel smirk tugged at his lips. “Last chance.”

Davenport let out a choked sound, somewhere between a growl and a sob. His resistance was fading, his body fraying apart at the seams. The pain wasn’t just physical anymore. It was deeper, invasive, a force so unnatural he could barely comprehend it. He wasn’t going to survive this.

His breath shuddered out. His pride fought against it, but in the end, self-preservation won. “Nocturne District.” The words spilled out, unwilling but undeniable. "Warehouse thirty-two. Underground. Secured."

Sylus didn’t react. Davenport’s body seized, another violent tremor racking through him as if something inside him had been forcefully pried open. He gasped, barely able to hold himself up.

"How many men?"

Davenport’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to say. Sylus didn’t give him a choice. His vision swam, pain wrapping around his skull like a vice, and the answer was ripped from his throat before he could stop it.

"200. Maybe more. Tech-armed. Drones. Shock fields. Automated defenses." His breath came in ragged pants.

Sylus exhaled slowly, as if filing the information away. Then, finally, Davenport saw it in his eyes. His uselessness.

Panic flared. “Wait—”

Sylus’s gaze didn’t waver. Davenport’s scream barely had time to leave his throat before his body fractured apart, breaking down into nothing but shimmering red dust.

Leila pushed off the wall, her legs trembling beneath her, but she refused to crumble. Not now. Not in front of Sylus. The moment she straightened, her body swayed—too much. The lingering effects of the shocks still burned in her nerves, leaving her muscles sluggish, uncooperative. Her breath hitched as frustration built, hot and suffocating.

Then Sylus was there. He caught her wrist, steadying her, his grip firm but careful—like he expected her to pull away. She didn’t. Leila kept her gaze down, her breathing uneven. She was fine. She had to be fine but then her vision blurred.

Damn it.

She clenched her jaw, willing the sting in her eyes to fade but her body had other plans. The tremor in her hands betrayed her, her shoulders locked so tight they ached. Everything ached. Not from the pain. From the violation. From the helplessness. From the reminder those nights she had to endure years ago. She hated it. She hated that she was standing here, shaking like a leaf, hated that she couldn't stop it.

She tried to pull away, but Sylus didn’t let her. His grip on her wrist tightened—just slightly. Not restraining. Anchoring. Then, without a word, he moved. Warmth surrounded her, slow and deliberate, as his arms wrapped around her. Not forceful, not demanding—just there. A quiet offering. A shield. Leila stiffened on instinct. A touch like this—voluntary, unthreatening—was unfamiliar and foreign.

For more than a decade, she had never let a man get this close without consequences, without knives drawn, without bones breaking and without blood spilled. But Sylus didn’t expect anything from her. He didn’t speak. He didn’t pry. He just held her.

And for the first time in over 10 years, Leila didn’t push away.

Her fists were still clenched against his chest, ready to push away, but she didn’t. Not yet. The world felt too unsteady beneath her feet, the echoes of her past clawing at the edges of her mind, threatening to drag her under. But Sylus wouldn’t let her fall.

His arms tightened—not enough to trap, just enough to remind her she wasn’t alone. His chin barely brushed the top of her head, the faint scent of smoke and metal grounding her. She had spent so long convincing herself she didn’t need this. That she could only ever rely on herself. Then, in the quiet, his voice came—low, unwavering.

“This was the last time. You won’t be the bait again.” His crimson gaze locked onto hers, dark and unwavering. “Not while I’m around.”

---

Leila returned to her room, the opulent surroundings a stark contrast to the churning turmoil within her. Weariness, a bone-deep exhaustion, settled upon her, but it was a restless kind, a tension that refused to dissipate.

She stood beneath the scalding spray of the shower, the water a relentless assault against her skin. Her hands, clenched into fists, braced against the cold, slick tile. She scrubbed herself raw, her nails dragging over every inch of skin Davenport had touched, a futile attempt to erase the violation. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

The water, hot enough to scald, became a phantom touch, a twisted echo of his unwanted presence. The relentless pressure of the droplets morphed into the sensation of hands that didn’t belong, a chilling reminder of past horrors. Her breath hitched, her throat constricted, and she pressed her forehead against the cold tile, a desperate attempt to anchor herself in the present. Breathe. Feel the difference. But the memories, dark and insidious, clung to her like a second skin, refusing to release their hold.

She emerged from the shower, her skin red and aching, a testament to her desperate attempt to cleanse herself. The mirror, fogged and distorted, reflected a blurred image, a fragmented representation of herself. Perhaps that was for the best. She didn’t want to see the vulnerability, the raw, exposed nerves that lay beneath her carefully constructed facade.

She pulled on a robe, the soft fabric a small comfort, and sank onto the couch, the exhaustion hitting her like a physical blow. But sleep, she knew, would be a distant, unattainable luxury. Not tonight. Perhaps not for many nights to come.

A single tear, hot and defiant, slipped down her cheek, a betrayal of the carefully constructed walls around her heart. It wasn’t a tear of weakness, but of rage, a burning, incandescent fury at the memory of powerlessness.

A knock, soft yet insistent, echoed through the room, pulling her from the depths of her torment. She knew who it was, even before she answered.

Sylus stepped inside, his crimson eyes scanning the room, taking in the scene with a predatory intensity. He held a glass of water and a small bottle of melatonin, a silent offering. “I figured you won’t be able to sleep,” he stated, his voice softer than usual, devoid of his usual playful mockery. He placed the water and pills on the nearby table, his movements precise and deliberate. “This will help.”

Leila stared at the offering, then at him, her eyes guarded. He wasn’t hovering, but he wasn’t leaving either, his presence a silent, unwavering force. A humorless scoff escaped her lips. “Since when do you play caretaker?”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Since you came back shaking.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried a sharp edge, an undercurrent of something that wasn’t gentle.

It was anger, a cold, controlled fury. Not directed at her, but at the man who had dared to violate her. Leila exhaled, a slow, measured breath. She could feel the unspoken questions in his gaze, the way he was trying to piece together the incongruity of the situation: Leila, the Blackthorn Siren, the embodiment of lethal grace, reduced to trembling vulnerability by a single, unwanted touch.

She looked away, her gaze fixed on the floor. “You’re wondering why.”

Sylus remained silent, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t need to speak.

Leila swallowed, her fingers curling into tight fists. “It’s not the first time.”

The words hung in the air as it felt heavy on her tongue. Sylus went still. She stared at the floor, coming up to the words of a painful confession. “I grew up in an orphanage,” she began, her voice hollow, devoid of emotion. “Most of the kids were just trying to survive. Some of us learned to fight young. Some didn’t.”

Her throat tightened, a lump of unspoken pain but she forced the words out, each syllable a painful shard of memory. “There was a man, one of the caretakers.” Her nails dug into the fabric of her robe. “He made sure we all knew how powerless we were.”

The memory clawed its way to the surface, unrelenting. It wasn’t just an echo of the past—it was a storm, sweeping through her with merciless force. She could still feel it. The smallness of her child-self, the way her limbs had thrashed in vain, the crushing weight of powerlessness pressing her into the cold, unyielding floor. The taste of blood in her mouth. The way the air had felt too thin, like she was drowning on dry land.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. “It wasn’t just once.” Her voice was eerily steady, stripped of any tremor, a testament to years of forcing rage into silence. “I fought every time. Kicked. Screamed. Clawed at him until my nails tore.” Her breath hitched, but she refused to let the weakness win. “And every time, it didn’t matter. He always came back. Again and again.”

Her throat tightened. The memory of it, the inevitability of it, had been worse than the pain itself. Knowing that no matter how hard she fought, no matter how much she begged, no one was coming. No one would save her.

“Until one day—” Her voice faltered, the words catching on something sharp inside her. She exhaled sharply, the sound too close to a choked sob. Her nails dug deeper into her palms. “I snapped.”

The memory of that night, the night she finally broke, was etched into her soul. The shard of broken glass, the crimson spray, the sickening thud as she buried it in his throat, again and again, until he was nothing more than a lifeless husk.

“I ran after that.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, a dark confession. “But someone found me first. An old woman.” She exhaled, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across her face. “She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just looked at me and knew.” Her hands slowly relaxed, the tension draining away, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

“She trained me. Taught me how to be strong, how to be something men like him feared.” Her jaw tightened, her expression hardening. “By the time she passed, I had already decided—men who take, who violate, who destroy… they don’t get to live.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. She expected him to pry, to demand details, to dissect her vulnerability. But he didn’t. He simply stood there, his crimson eyes unwavering, his presence a silent acknowledgment of her pain.

Then, he spoke, his voice low and resonant, echoing her own words. "That's why you don't go after women."

The echo of her own statement, spoken back to her, hung in the air, a subtle shift in perspective. He wasn't simply understanding; he was acknowledging a shared understanding, a dark mirror reflecting her own internal code. As she looked up, her eyes meeting his, as a single tear cascaded down her cheek. Before she could react, Sylus's hand moved, his touch surprisingly gentle. His thumb brushed against her skin, wiping away the tear with a feather-light touch.

The gesture, so unexpected, so contrary to his usual predatory demeanor, sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn't a caress, nor a display of sympathy. It was a silent acknowledgment, a shared moment of vulnerability between two predators who understood the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. His crimson eyes, usually gleaming with amusement or predatory intent, held a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't pity, nor was it desire. It was something akin to… understanding. A silent recognition of the shared scars they both carried.

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Even the strongest have their breaking points, and sometimes," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "even the strongest need someone to acknowledge their pain."

The air in the room thrummed with unspoken tension. Sylus's eyes, usually sharp and calculating, held something different—something genuine. A flicker of vulnerability, dark and unguarded, surfaced beneath the predator’s gaze. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but Leila caught it.

Her breath hitched. The man before her, the one who wielded control like a weapon, stood unmasked for just a fraction of a second. There was something dangerously alluring about it. A recognition, an unspoken understanding between two creatures forged in blood and betrayal.

The space between them shrank.

Leila barely noticed when his hand lifted, fingers grazing the side of her face before settling on her jaw. Not forceful. Not demanding. But deliberate. His thumb traced along her skin, slow and measured, as he tilted her chin up. His touch burned—not from heat, but from something far more potent. Something dangerous.

She should have pulled away, should have laughed, deflected, retreated but she didn’t. Sylus’s breath, warm and predatory, ghosted across her lips. Their noses nearly brushed, the charged air between them crackling with anticipation. The world beyond this moment ceased to exist, drowned beneath the weight of their collision.

Then— A sharp, insistent knock fractured the moment like a blade slicing through silk.

"Boss," Kieran’s voice, flat and urgent, cut through the heavy silence. "Arsenal delivery just arrived. Needs your immediate attention."

Sylus didn’t move right away. His fingers remained against her skin, his grip tightening just slightly, as if deciding whether to let reality intrude or dismiss it altogether. A slow exhale left him, sharp and edged with irritation. His eyes flickered toward the door, his expression turning cold once more—a mask slipping back into place. The moment, the almost-kiss, was severed by reality's cruel interruption.

"Let them in," he commanded, voice regaining its usual sharpness. "Tell them I’ll be there shortly."

His gaze returned to Leila. His thumb brushed against her skin one last time before he pulled away, a slow, almost amused smile curving his lips.

"It seems our… conversation must be postponed." His voice was low, edged with something knowing. Something promising.

And with that, he was gone.

---

A week had passed, but the air between them remained thick with unspoken words and lingering touches that never quite landed. Ever since that night, something had shifted. It was there in the way Sylus’s gaze lingered a second too long. In the way Leila caught herself watching him, studying the sharp angles of his face when he wasn’t looking.

But neither of them made a move.

Instead, they buried themselves in planning. Calculating every possible outcome. Dissecting every entry point, every weakness in Dainhart’s fortress. The weight of the mission pressed down on them like a loaded gun, yet beneath the layers of strategy and precision, something far more dangerous brewed between them.

Tension.

It was in the way Sylus would stand too close, his voice dropping to something lower when they spoke in private. In the way Leila’s breath would catch, her muscles coiled tight whenever his fingers brushed hers while reviewing blueprints. Neither acknowledged it. Neither dared.

Leila found distractions where she could. She spent her nights slipping into the underbelly of N109, gathering intel, moving like a shadow through the streets. Sometimes she went alone. Other nights, Luke and Kieran accompanied her, their presence a welcomed buffer from the thoughts that clawed at the back of her mind. They handled informants and threats alike, keeping themselves sharp in the absence of high-stakes missions.

Currently, Leila was focused, her gaze scanning every alley, every figure that lingered too long in the dark. Intel gathering wasn’t her favorite thing, but it was necessary. Unfortunately, her companions were less interested in the mission and more in enjoying their temporary freedom. The streets of N109 pulsed with life, the neon signs flickering over the damp pavement as Leila, Luke, and Kieran moved through the shadows. The trio blended effortlessly into the chaos, their presence felt but unnoticed—a lethal trio on a seemingly casual stroll.

Luke stretched his arms with a satisfied sigh. "Finally, some fresh air. I was about to start talking to the damn walls back at the base."

Kieran huffed in agreement. "For real. If I had to listen to Mephisto squawking one more time, I was gonna lose it."

Leila smirked. "Didn’t know you two were so fragile."

"Not fragile. Just bored," Luke corrected, his crow-like mask tilting toward her. "That place is dead without a proper mission. You, at least, make things interesting."

Kieran nodded. "Yeah, and you actually let us stab people when needed. Unlike boss, who just glares at them until they cry."

Leila chuckled, shaking her head. "I don't let you stab people. You just do it anyway."

Luke waved a hand dismissively. "Either way, better than sitting around." His tone shifted, a bit too casual. "Though, I gotta say, there has been some entertainment lately. Something about our boss acting… different."

Leila didn’t react. Not outwardly.

"Yeah," Kieran added, his tone amused. "Less bossy. More… I don’t know. Distracted."

Luke snapped his fingers. "Right! And it just so happens to have started after a certain Blackthorn Siren showed up."

Leila exhaled slowly. "You two are awfully chatty tonight."

Luke shrugged. "You haven't denied it."

"Because there’s nothing to deny," she said smoothly.

Silence. Then Kieran let out a low chuckle. "You really expect us to believe that?"

Leila shot him a warning look. "I expect you to focus."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance—at least, that’s what she assumed behind their crow-like masks—before Luke sighed dramatically.

"Fine, fine. But when you and Sylus finally combust from all that tension, just know—we called it first."

Leila rolled her eyes and walked ahead, pretending not to hear their quiet laughter as they followed.

Soon after, they went back to the base. The trio moved through the corridors of the Onychinus base, their footsteps echoing against the sleek marble floors. The air was thick with the lingering scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne, a constant reminder of the world they lived in. The night had been productive—efficient, methodical. They reached the heavy double doors of Sylus’s office, the ominous black wood polished to a perfect shine. Luke exchanged a glance with Kieran before pushing them open without hesitation.

Upon entering Sylus’s office, they found him already waiting—perched behind his sleek mahogany desk, crimson eyes flicking up from the papers before him. Mephisto shifted on its perch, clicking softly. Luke and Kieran dropped into the chairs across from the desk, while Leila remained standing, arms crossed. The debriefing began.

“Dainhart’s main compound is reinforced with twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Leila started, her tone all business. “Cameras cover every entry point except the west perimeter, which has a two-minute blind spot during shift changes.”

Kieran leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “The guards aren’t just hired muscle. They’re well-trained, well-armed.”

Luke nodded. “Patrols rotate every fifteen minutes. We spotted at least twenty men outside—double that inside, maybe more.”

Sylus listened, his expression unreadable, fingers steepled in front of him. His gaze remained sharp, calculative, absorbing every detail. “There’s an underground storage wing,” Leila continued, “heavily secured. We’re guessing that’s where he keeps his more valuable assets.”

Luke shifted slightly. “If we hit from the west and time it right, we can slip in before the next—”

“Not we.” Sylus’s voice cut through the room, smooth but absolute. Luke immediately clamped his mouth shut. “Leila stays. You two, out.”

A tense pause. Leila stiffened but still maintained composure. Luke and Kieran both exchanged a glance, masked faces unreadable, but she knew them well enough to sense their amusement.

“Well,” Kieran drawled, standing up. “That’s our cue.”

Luke smirked, rising to his feet. “Yeah, we’ll leave you two to… debrief.” Leila shot them both a warning glare, but they were already making their way to the door.

“Try not to have too much fun, boss,” Luke added over his shoulder.

“And don’t keep her up all night,” Kieran deadpanned, shutting the door behind them.

Silence.

Leila’s pulse kicked up a notch as she turned back to Sylus. His gaze was locked onto her now—piercing, unreadable. He leaned back in his chair for a moment, watching her, before slowly rising to his feet. Her breath hitched slightly as he rounded the desk, closing the space between them with slow, deliberate steps. Towering over her, his presence was a shadow stretching long over the room.

His voice was quiet, yet it sent a shiver down her spine. “Now,” he murmured, “tell me everything.”

Leila held her ground as Sylus came closer, his movements slow, measured—predatory. His eyes gleamed under the dim lighting of the office, dissecting her with an intensity that made her stomach twist. She wasn’t afraid of him. No, that was the problem. The way he looked at her, the way he lingered too close without ever touching—there was something far more dangerous about that.

Still, she forced herself to focus. "We already told you. Dainhart's security isn't impenetrable, but it's a fortress compared to most." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "His men are trained and armed. They’ll respond fast. Any wrong move, and we’ll be buried under bullets before we reach Dainhart in the underground."

Sylus hummed lowly, tilting his head. “And yet, you’re still willing to go in.”

Leila narrowed her eyes. "I’m not afraid of a challenge."

He took another step forward, invading her space, close enough that she could catch the faint scent of his cologne—dark spices and something sharper, something unmistakably him. "No," he murmured, "you're not."

The air between them thickened. Leila willed herself to look unaffected, but Sylus had an infuriating way of seeing through things. His gaze swept over her, calculating, searching for something unspoken.

“You should get some rest before we finalize the plan.” His voice was lower now, smooth like silk, but she caught the edge beneath it—something deeper. Something unreadable.

She scoffed. “I don’t need you to coddle me.”

“I don’t coddle.” His lips curved into something just shy of a smirk. “But I do make sure my people aren’t reckless.”

“Your people?” she echoed, her voice dipping with challenge.

Sylus didn’t waver. “Yes. Mine.”

The words sent something sharp through her—something she refused to name. Before she could form a response, Sylus took a step back, breaking the moment like it never existed.

“Go,” he said smoothly, turning away as if he hadn’t just dropped a grenade between them. “We’ll go over the final details in the morning.”

Leila forced her feet to move, heading for the door without another word. But as she gripped the handle, she hesitated. She didn’t look back. But she could feel his eyes on her, burning into her skin long after she left the room.

---

The silence of the night was suffocating. Leila sat on her couch, her body restless, fingers drumming against her knee. She had tried everything—pacing, showering, even pouring herself a drink—but nothing could shake the sensation crawling under her skin. Something in her churned, a restless, aching pull that refused to be ignored. It wasn’t like her. She never let herself want, never let herself crave. Wanting led to weakness. Craving led to mistakes.

But this was different. This was stronger than any force she had ever encountered. And she knew exactly what—who—she wanted. Sylus. The way he looked at her tonight, the way his voice curled around her name like a promise—like a challenge—had rooted itself deep, sinking into the cracks she swore didn’t exist.

Leila clenched her jaw, her nails digging into her palms. This was reckless. This was dangerous.

“Fuck it.” The words left her lips in a breathless curse before she could stop herself.

Then she was up, shoving past reason and restraint as she stormed out of her room, her bare feet silent against the cold floors. She didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate, not until she reached Sylus’s door. The door creaked open, and there he was. His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable, his hair tousled, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing a sliver of skin she had no business noticing. He didn’t look surprised to see her. Of course he didn’t.

"Took you long enough," he murmured, his voice a low, husky drawl. The words weren't accusatory, but rather, a statement of fact, a confirmation of an unspoken desire. He had been waiting, anticipating her arrival.

The animalistic need that pulsed through her demanded immediate gratification. "Shut up," she growled, her voice rough with desire, the word a command, not a request.

She marched towards him, her movements predatory, her eyes fixed on his. Before he could respond, she closed the distance as she stood on her tiptoes, her lips crashing against his in a hungry, demanding kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of true need, of a desperate attempt to erase the lingering shadows of unwanted touch with the burning heat of their shared desire.

Her hands moved over him, possessive and demanding, her fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. She wanted him, needed him, with a ferocity that bordered on violence. The kiss deepened, becoming more frantic, more desperate, a silent battle for dominance.

Sylus, for his part, met her aggression with a silent compliance, his body yielding to her touch, his lips parting beneath hers. He was a predator, a master of control, but in this moment, he allowed her lead, his submission a dangerous game. His hands, however, didn’t stay still, they mapped the curves of her body, pulling her closer, a promise of the power he held in reserve.

Leila's hands moved with a restless urgency, tugging at his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the remaining buttons. She wanted skin against skin, the undeniable heat of their bodies melding together. The kiss grew more desperate, more demanding, a silent conversation spoken in the language of touch. Sylus's hands, though seemingly passive, moved with a subtle, predatory grace. He traced the line of her jaw, his fingers ghosting across her skin, sending shivers down her spine. He was mapping her, learning her, anticipating her every move.

With a low growl, Leila pushed him back against the wall, her body pressing against his, the hard planes of his chest a welcome pressure. She wanted to feel him, to possess him, to erase the lingering memory of unwanted touch with their shared desire. She nipped at his lower lip, her teeth grazing his skin, eliciting a low groan from him. The sound fueled her desire, emboldening her. She wanted to push him, to test his limits, to see how far he would let her go.

Her hands moved lower, her fingers tracing the line of his belt buckle, her touch impatient and demanding. Before she could unfasten his belt, Sylus's hands moved, his grip tightening on her wrists. He pulled her hands away, his eyes, dark and intense, locking onto hers. The shift in dominance was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, a silent declaration of control.

He tilted his head, his lips curving into a predatory smirk. "Impatient, kitten?" he murmured, his voice a low, husky drawl.

The question, laced with amusement and a hint of challenge, ignited a spark of defiance within her. She wasn't used to being denied, to having her desires thwarted. "I get what I want," she growled, her voice rough with desire.

Sylus chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through her. "And what, exactly, do you want, kitten?"

His question hung in the air, charged with unspoken promises and dangerous possibilities. The air crackled with a tension that wasn't entirely hostile, a silent battle for dominance that both thrilled and terrified her. Leila's eyes narrowed, her gaze locking onto his. The question, though seemingly simple, was a loaded weapon, a challenge wrapped in a silken thread of desire. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of a direct answer.

"You," she breathed, her voice a low, husky growl. "I want you."

The words hung in the air, a declaration of intent. She wasn't playing games; she was stating a fact. A fact that, she suspected, he already knew. Sylus's smirk widened, a flash of predatory amusement in his crimson eyes. "And what makes you think you can have me?" he purred, his voice laced with a dangerous undercurrent.

"Because," Leila replied, her voice dropping to a whisper, her hands sliding up his chest, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles, "you want me too."

She pushed him back against the wall, her movements predatory, her body pressing against his, the hard planes of his chest a welcome pressure. She was taking control, dictating the terms of their dangerous dance. Her hands moved with a possessive urgency, tugging at his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. She wanted skin against skin. The kiss deepened, becoming more frantic, more desperate, a silent conversation spoken in the language of touch.

Sylus's hands, though seemingly passive, moved with a subtle grace. He traced the line of her jaw, his fingers ghosting across her skin, sending shivers down her spine. He was mapping her, learning her, anticipating her every move. With a guttural growl, he shifted, his hands moving to her hips, pulling her closer, their bodies grinding together. The movement was a subtle shift in power, a silent reminder that he was never truly passive, that he was always playing his own game.

He tilted his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her. The sound, raw and primal, fueled his desire, emboldening him. He wanted to push her, to test her limits, to see how far she would let him go. The air in the room crackled with an almost feral energy. Leila stood before Sylus, her gaze locked on his, the unspoken tension between them a tangible force. The dangerous dance of power and desire had reached a fever pitch, a silent battleground of wills. She moved with a deliberate, almost predatory grace, her hands sliding down his chest, tracing the hard lines of his torso. Her touch was possessive, a silent declaration of ownership, a claim on the territory of his body.

Sylus watched her, his crimson eyes gleaming with a dark intensity, a mixture of desire and predatory anticipation. He stood still, a silent observer, allowing her to dictate the terms of their encounter. Leila’s hands reached his belt, her fingers deftly undoing the buckle. The sound, sharp and metallic in the charged silence, echoed the unspoken desires that thrummed between them. She lowered his trousers, her gaze never leaving his, a silent challenge in her eyes.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she knelt before him. The gesture, a stark contrast to her usual dominance, was a calculated act of submission, a delicate balance of power and vulnerability. Sylus’s breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He watched her, his eyes dark and hungry, as she reached for him. Her touch was reverent, almost worshipful, yet possessive, demanding.

She took him into her mouth with her movements slow and deliberate, exploring him with an uninhibited hunger. The act was both an offering and a command. The room was filled with the sounds of their ragged breaths, the air thick with unspoken promises. Sylus’s hand clenched at her hair, his body rigid with anticipation. He was a master of control, yet in this moment, he allowed her this dominance, this intimate act of possession. The silence was charged, electric, a silent testament to the energy that pulsed between them.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken desires. Leila's touch was a delicate balance of power and vulnerability, a display of both submission and dominance. Sylus, his body rigid with anticipation, allowed her this intimate act of possession, his gaze intense and unwavering. The sensations were building, a firestorm of need consuming them both. Sylus's hands clenched at his sides, his control slipping, the predatory mask momentarily faltering.

He finally broke the silence, his voice a low growl, thick with a mixture of pleasure and a desperate need for control. "Leila," he breathed, his voice rough, "look at me." His hand, with a sudden, possessive movement, clenched in her hair, pulling her head back slightly. The unexpected force, though not painful, was a clear assertion of dominance, a sharp reminder of the power he held in reserve.

She lifted her gaze, her eyes dark and dilated, reflecting the desire that mirrored his own, even with him still within her mouth. A slight gag reflex rippled through her, an involuntary response to the depth and pressure. The power dynamic shifted, a subtle dance of dominance and submission played out in the charged silence. He reached for her, his other hand framing her face, his touch both possessive and reverent.

His thumbs traced her cheekbones, his gaze intense, searching. "You know what you're doing to me," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. It was a statement, not a question, a low growl of satisfaction. Leila's breath hitched, her chest tight. The intensity of his gaze, the hunger in his eyes, sent a shiver down her spine. The air crackled with a palpable energy, a dangerous mix of desire and control.

Sylus, with a slow, deliberate movement, pushed Leila gently off of him. The shift in power was subtle, yet undeniable, a calculated move in their dangerous dance. He reached for her, his hands strong and sure, lifting her with an effortless grace that belied his strength. He carried her towards the bed, his gaze never leaving hers, the unspoken promise of possession hanging heavy in the air. He laid her down gently, his eyes tracing the curves of her body, igniting a fire within her. His hands moved to her clothes, his touch possessive, stripping her of the last vestiges of control. He peeled away the fabric, revealing her skin, now flushed and heated with desire.

His gaze lingered, a slow, deliberate appraisal, before he lowered himself to her. His lips now tracing a fiery path across her skin, his touch both demanding and reverent. He explored her body, his hands and mouth claiming every inch, igniting a symphony of sensation. Leila, under his touch, went feral. The carefully constructed walls around her desire crumbled, her inhibitions melting away in the face of his intense, possessive touch. She arched beneath him, her breath hitching, her body responding with primal hunger. His touch was relentless, pushing her to the edge, driving her wild with need. He was a master, a conductor of their shared symphony of desire, and she, a willing participant in his dangerous game.

Then, he moved lower, his touch becoming more intimate, more demanding until his tongue danced against her most sensitive area, his movements precise and deliberate, a sensation that threatened to consume her. His touch, intimate and demanding, sent waves of sensation crashing through her. He lingered, his tongue a delicate torment, pushing her to the very edge of control. The air sparked with unspoken desires, the room thick with the scent of arousal. Just as she teetered on the precipice, a gasp escaping her lips, he pulled back.

The abrupt stop sent a jolt of frustration through her. She arched beneath him, her hands reaching for him, a silent plea for the release he had so cruelly withheld. He climbed atop her, his movements predatory and possessive. "Not yet, kitten." His eyes, dark and gleaming, locked onto hers, a silent acknowledgment of the power he now held. He paused, his gaze lingering on her flushed face, the vulnerability laid bare in her eyes.

Then, with a slow, deliberate thrust, he pushed himself into her. The sensation was sharp, almost painful, a stark contrast to the delicate torment that had preceded it. It was a claiming, an assertion of dominance. Leila gasped, her body arching beneath him, the sudden intrusion sent a shock to her senses. The pleasure, sharp and intense, quickly followed, a wildfire of sensation that threatened to consume her. He moved within her, his rhythm slow and deliberate, each thrust a calculated act of possession, each thrust a deliberate, possessive claim. The initial sharpness of his entry gave way to a slow, building rhythm, a controlled burn that ignited a fire within them both. Their bodies moved together, a primal dance of dominance and surrender.

Beneath the surface of lust, something else stirred. A connection, a fragile, unspoken understanding that transcended the physical. Their bodies melted together, the friction and heat blurring the lines between pleasure and something deeper, something akin to… vulnerability.

The room filled with the sounds of their ragged breaths, their bodies slick with sweat. Moans escaped their lips, a symphony of shared pleasure. The names they uttered, whispered and shouted, were punctuated by a string of profanities. It was a release, a surrender, a moment of shared vulnerability in the heart of their dangerous game. A silent acknowledgment of something they were both too afraid to name. A dangerous, exhilarating possibility that hung heavy in the air.

The rhythm shifted, the power dynamic subtly altering. With a sudden, fluid movement, Leila flipped their positions, her body now poised above his. She looked down at him, a predatory gleam in their depths.

She began to move, her hips rocking against his, setting a new, faster pace. The sensation was intoxicating, a visceral connection that sent waves of pleasure crashing through them both. Sylus's eyes rolled back, his control momentarily slipping, lost in the intensity of the moment. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements, a silent acknowledgment of her dominance. The room filled with the sounds of their ragged breaths and rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

As the intensity built, Sylus sat up, his movements driven by a primal need for connection. He embraced her, his arms wrapping around her bare torso as his hand rested on the back of her head, pulling her closer. His grip was tight, almost possessive, a subtle, unspoken plea. "You drive me insane." He whispered on Leila's ear.

It wasn’t just the physical pleasure that drove him. It was something deeper, something genuine and vulnerable. A desperate need to hold on, to keep her close, to prevent her from slipping away. His hug was a silent declaration, a desperate attempt to bridge the chasm between their carefully constructed walls. He wanted her close, as close as possible. He wanted her to stay.

Leila continued her rhythmic movements. The friction, the heat, the sheer animalistic energy of their coupling filled the room. A guttural groan escaped her lips, her control teetering on the edge. "Fuck, kitten" Sylus whispered against her shoulder, his voice a low, husky growl. The endearment was a stark contrast to his usual dominant pronouncements, a moment of vulnerability in the midst of their shared intensity.

Leila's grip on his hair tightened, her knuckles white, her body arching with each powerful thrust. The sensation was intoxicating, a visceral connection that pushed them both to the edge. She rocked against him, her movements driven by a primal need for release, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The room pulsed with the smell of sex. Their bodies, slick with sweat, moved in a desperate, synchronized rhythm, each thrust pushing them closer to the edge. The air crackled with the unspoken desires that hung heavy between them.

Leila's breath hitched, her body tensing, a wave of pleasure building within her. A guttural scream ripped through her throat, a primal release of the tension that had coiled within her. Simultaneously, Sylus groaned, a string of curses escaping his lips as the overwhelming sensation that consumed him. His body shuddered, his grip on her tightening, a desperate attempt to hold on to the fleeting moment of shared ecstasy.

The intensity subsided, leaving them breathless and trembling. Their bodies, still locked together, slowly stilled. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the sound of their ragged breaths. Their eyes met, a silent acknowledgment connection they had just shared. The predatory masks had fallen away, leaving behind a flicker of vulnerability, a shared moment of humanity.

Sylus, his arms still wrapped tightly around her, leaned in, his lips finding hers. The kiss was delicate, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the raw intensity of their coupling. It was a silent apology, a tender acknowledgment of the fragile connection that had formed between them. He still held her close, a subtle, almost desperate, plea for her to stay, to linger in the aftermath of their shared release.

Sylus, his arms still wrapped around Leila, searched her eyes, his crimson gaze intense and searching. He saw a flicker of something new, something that went beyond the desire and predatory instincts that usually defined their interactions. He saw a softness, a vulnerability that she rarely allowed to surface. It was a subtle shift, a delicate blooming of something fragile and unspoken.

Her eyes, usually guarded and sharp, held a warmth that made his breath catch in his throat. He saw the honesty of her desire, a yearning that went beyond the physical. It was a hint, a subtle whisper of the hidden emotions she kept locked away, a silent confession of the love she dared not speak.

A low growl rumbled in his chest—a mix of possession and something deeper, something dangerously close to desperation. The unspoken emotion in her gaze was a spark, igniting a fire within him, a hunger that burned beyond mere desire. He wanted her—not as an asset, not as a weapon in his arsenal, but as something more. Something his. His partner. His equal. And damn anyone who tried to take her from him.

A flicker of something—amusement, tinged with submissiveness—danced in Leila's eyes. The intensity of the moment, the honesty of their shared release, had loosened the walls she kept so carefully constructed.

She tilted her head, a smirk curving her lips, teasing but laced with something real. "You're starting to love me," she murmured, her voice a low, husky whisper.

Sylus stilled. The word settled between them like a loaded gun, heavy, dangerous. Love. Foreign on his tongue but something in the way she looked at him demanded a response—some acknowledgment of the undeniable shift between them. His gaze locked onto hers, unflinching. "Perhaps," he said, the word slow, deliberate. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, the touch deceptively gentle for a man who had never known softness. "Perhaps, I find myself… drawn… to your particular brand of chaos."

A beat of silence stretched between them, charged, suffocating. Then, softer, almost a confession—"And perhaps," his voice barely above a whisper, "I find myself unwilling to let you go."

His fingers brushed her jaw, tilting her face up, his gaze searching hers. "Perhaps even… incapable."

Leila smiled, a soft, genuine curve of her lips that transformed her usually sharp features. The subtle confession, the barely veiled vulnerability in his voice, was… endearing. It was a stark contrast to the predatory persona he usually projected, and it touched a chord within her, a flicker of warmth in the cold, guarded corners of her heart.

"Cute," she murmured, her voice laced with a playful affection that surprised even herself.

Sylus's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of his usual predatory edge returning. He cleared his throat, the moment of vulnerability quickly receding. He said, his voice regaining its usual commanding tone, "Your room will be repurposed. An arsenal, perhaps. Or a secondary control center. You won't be needing it."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over her, a possessive glint in his crimson eyes. "You'll be sleeping here," he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "In my room."

The possessiveness, though veiled beneath a layer of practicality, was unmistakable. He wasn't asking; he was claiming. It was a subtle assertion of dominance, a way of keeping her close, of ensuring she remained within his sphere of influence. And, she suspected, a way of indulging the burgeoning, unspoken emotions that simmered between them.

---

The strategy room carried the usual crisp efficiency of Onychinus, its dim lighting casting long shadows against the sleek black table. The air smelled of strong coffee—a scent Leila had long associated with early debriefings and calculated warfare. She sat on the couch with her coffee in hand, posture relaxed, face unreadable. But beneath the surface, her body still hummed with the remnants of last night. The heat of Sylus’s hands, the weight of his gaze, the way he had unraveled something deep, something she wasn’t ready to name.

Across from her, Luke and Kieran sat in perfect, eerie silence. Too silent. "Tsk, tsk," Luke broke the quiet, voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. "Rough night, Leila? You look like you barely got any sleep."

Her grip on the coffee mug tightened slightly as Kieran hummed in agreement. "Yeah. Funny thing—so did we. So much noise in the air vents. Must’ve been the wind." Leila shot them a sharp glance, her expression flat.

Luke leaned back lazily in his chair, tilting his head. "Crazy how sound carries in this place, huh?" Kieran nodded sagely. "Especially from—oh, what was it—the west wing?"

Leila inhaled slowly, a picture of forced patience. "You're both insufferable," she muttered.

"And yet, you keep us around," Luke shot back, tapping a gloved finger against the table. "Must be my charm," he added.

"Or," Kieran mused, "she just needed a break from—oh, wait. Never mind. She already got one last night."

The teasing would have gone further—if not for the slow, deliberate clink of porcelain against the table. All three of them turned their attention to Sylus. He sat at the head of the table, crimson eyes glinting with quiet authority as he adjusted his glasses back on his nose bridge. His coffee sat untouched before him, a clear sign of his growing irritation. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—too calm.

"If you two are done playing court jesters," he mused, "perhaps we can begin the debriefing."

A tense pause. Luke and Kieran straightened slightly, but Kieran—ever shameless—muttered under his breath, "Touchy."

Sylus’s gaze flicked to him. "Repeat that?" Kieran didn’t. Luke, for once, had the sense to stay quiet.

Satisfied, Sylus exhaled slowly, picking up his coffee at last. "Good. Now," he said, "let’s get to work."

Leila took a long sip of her coffee, fighting the urge to smirk. The air in the briefing room was thick with tension, but this time, it had nothing to do with lingering touches or stolen glances. It was the kind of tension that came before bloodshed—the quiet, calculated preparation for an execution.

Leila, Luke, and Kieran stood before the large table where a detailed map of Dainhart’s compound was spread out. Surveillance images, guard rotations, and security layouts were meticulously marked. The weight of what they were planning wasn’t lost on anyone. This wasn’t just another infiltration. It was a kill order.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the room with cool precision. The ruthless businessman, the king of Onychinus, was in full control.

"This isn’t just about getting into his compound," Leila said, arms crossed. "It’s about making sure he doesn’t walk out."

Luke, always the first to cut through the tension, tapped the map. "The bastard’s got more layers of security than a paranoid emperor. Underground vault, biometric locks, armed guards in shifts—this isn’t going to be clean."

"It doesn’t have to be clean," Sylus cut in, his voice calm, deadly. "It has to be final."

A heavy silence settled.

Leila leaned forward, tapping a specific location on the map. "Dainhart's private quarters are here. He doesn’t leave this section of the compound unless he has to. Security tightens after midnight, but there’s a gap between shift rotations at 1:45 AM when the supply truck arrives."

Sylus considered this, his crimson gaze unwavering. "And the target?"

Leila’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "I’ll handle him personally."

Luke let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Remind me never to piss you off."

Sylus, however, wasn’t amused. His gaze sharpened on Leila, the room seeming to darken.

"This isn’t personal," he stated.

Leila’s expression remained unreadable. "He made it personal the moment he put a bounty on my head."

Sylus held her gaze, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. He didn’t argue.

"Fine," he said smoothly. "But you won’t do it alone. I’ll be there to ensure there are no loose ends."

Leila raised a brow. "Afraid I’ll make a mess?"

Sylus looked at her with a hard gaze, slamming his palms on the table. "Afraid you’ll get yourself killed."

Another beat of silence. Then Luke clapped his hands together. "Alright, now that we’ve established who’s protecting who, can we talk about our exit plan? Or are we just winging it?" Still, silence engulfed them.

Kieran snickered. "Considering how long you two have been staring at each other, I’d say improvisation is our best bet."

Sylus’s gaze flickered to them, a sharp warning. "Try to act professional for once."

Luke held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just saying, boss. Barely got any sleep last night with all the… tension in the air."

Leila shot him a glare, but Kieran only grinned beneath his mask. "Yeah, Luke’s got a point. Hard to sleep when the walls feel like they’re carrying secrets."

Sylus exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple like a father dealing with insufferable children. "Both of you—out. Now."

Luke and Kieran exchanged knowing glances but obeyed, heading toward the door. Just before stepping out, Luke threw one last glance at Leila. "Try not to keep the boss too distracted tonight, yeah?"

---

The sky bled into the city like ink, stretching shadows long and swallowing the neon glow of N109’s underbelly. The air was thick with the scent of rain and gasoline, the hum of distant engines a constant undercurrent. Leila adjusted the comm in her ear, gaze locked on the towering estate in the distance. Dainhart’s compound sat like a fortress, draped in cold steel and armed guards, the very picture of paranoia. They had spent days studying its weak points, memorizing security rotations, planning for contingencies.

Now, it was time.

“Luke, Kieran,” Sylus’s voice came smooth and unshaken through the comms. “Move into position.”

From their vantage point, Leila spotted the twins slipping through the perimeter, their movements synchronized, almost inhumanly precise. They were good—she’d give them that. “Moving into position now,” Kieran’s voice crackled in.

“Copy that. Start the diversion on my mark,” Sylus responded. Leila felt the tension coil inside her, muscles taut, instincts sharp. She had done this a thousand times—silent infiltration, surgical kills—but this felt different. The weight of what they were about to do pressed heavy against her ribs.

Beside her, Sylus adjusted his gloves, his eyes scanning the compound with the same cold calculation he always carried “You ready?” he asked.

Leila exhaled, rolling her shoulders. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips before he turned, pressing a gloved hand to his earpiece. “Luke. Now.”

The explosion rocked the south wing of the compound, a burst of fire and shattering glass tearing through the night. Alarms shrieked. Guards scrambled. Chaos erupted. Leila and Sylus moved.

They slipped through the chaos like phantoms. A guard rounded a corner, his weapon raised, but Leila was faster. She moved like a whisper, her blade a silver flash in the dim light. The guard crumpled to the ground, a silent testament to her speed and precision.

They pressed forward, encountering a squad of guards converging on their position. Sylus moved first, his energy crackling at his fingertips. He unleashed a wave of force, sending the guards flying, their bodies slamming against the walls. Leila followed, her blade a blur of motion, weaving through the chaos. She disarmed one guard, using his own weapon against him. Another lunged, but she sidestepped, her elbow connecting with his throat, silencing him instantly.

They reached the main hall in record time. “East corridor is clear,” Kieran’s voice filtered in.

“You’ve got two guards stationed outside the secured office,” Luke added. “Handle it and you’re in.”

Leila pressed her back against the cold stone wall, listening to the shifting weight of footsteps ahead. She glanced at Sylus. He lifted a brow, wordlessly asking—you or me?

She rolled her eyes before slipping forward, vanishing into the dark. A soft thud—then another. By the time Sylus turned the corner, both men were down, their throats slit in eerie unison. “Show-off,” he muttered.

Leila wiped the blood from her blade. “You’re just mad you didn’t get to do it.” He huffed a quiet laugh before reaching for the secured office’s reinforced door. The next phase of the plan was simple: locate Dainhart, eliminate him, leave nothing behind but bodies. But then, the doors down the hall opened.

Celeste Marrow, Dainhart’s right hand, a strategist, a woman who didn’t make mistakes, stepped into their path. Yet here she stood, unarmed, hands raised in surrender. Leila stilled, instincts screaming. Something wasn’t right.

"You’re too late," Celeste said, her voice smooth. "Dainhart has fled. He knew you were coming."

"Where did he go?" Sylus demanded, his voice low, edged with quiet authority.

"This isn’t your fight, Onychinus," Celeste said smoothly, but her eyes flickered toward Leila. "It’s hers." Leila’s pulse spiked. Celeste wasn’t looking at Sylus. She was looking at her.

A beat of silence hung in the air, then Celeste continued, her eyes now solely on Leila. "You don’t know, do you?" Celeste’s lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. "Who placed the initial bounty on your head? Who set the price so high that every hunter, every syndicate in the city wanted your head on a plate? Yes, Dainhart amplified it, but he wasn’t alone.”

A pause. A breath. A single moment before the knife twisted. "Onychinus was involved."

Silence. Cold. Electric.

The words slammed into Leila like a bullet, hollowing her out. No. Her breath came short, sharp. A beat of disbelief. A cold, creeping fury. She snapped her gaze to Sylus, searching for a flinch, a crack a fucking denial. He said nothing.

Celeste laughed. "And you, little siren, have been running in circles for nothing." She tilted her head. "Did you really think you were sent after Sylus because Dainhart wanted him dead?" A cruel amusement danced in her eyes. "Sylus can't be killed. Dainhart knows that. Everyone in this city knows that."

Leila’s fingers curled into fists, her pulse a war drum in her ears. Celeste leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "You were sent on a goose chase for the hell of it. You were never meant to succeed. You were just entertai—"

A gunshot.

The sound ripped through the space like a violent exhale. Celeste crumpled, a clean shot to the skull. Instant. Brutal. Final. Leila didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her breath came jagged, her heart slamming against her ribs. Not from fear—but from the horrifying, gut-wrenching realization. Sylus had pulled the trigger, not because Celeste was a danger but because she was about to say something he didn’t want her to.

Her voice came out low, trembling with something dangerous. “What the fuck did you just do?”

Sylus exhaled, lowering his gun, his expression unreadable. Controlled. Too controlled. “I eliminated a threat.” Her stomach twisted.

"Is it true?" Leila whispered, her voice barely audible. "Did you… Were you involved?"

Sylus's red eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, flickered with something she couldn't quite decipher. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Yes," he admitted, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "It's true."

The confession, so blunt and devoid of remorse, shattered something within her. It wasn't just the betrayal, the knowledge that he had lied, that he had manipulated her. It was the fact that she had allowed him to. She had allowed him to chip away at the walls she had spent years building, to see the vulnerability she kept hidden from the world.

"Then I'm done," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. She turned, her back to him, the man she had trusted, the man who had broken her. "Don't bother trying to explain."

She turned to leave, but Sylus's hand shot out, reaching for her. This time, however, his touch faltered. His fingers brushed against her arm, but the grip lacked its usual confidence. He felt a wrenching guilt, a twisting pain in his chest. His usually cold, calculating demeanor crumbled.

"Leila…" he called out, his voice a desperate plea, a stark contrast to the controlled tone he usually employed. There was a frantic urgency in his tone, a desperate attempt to rectify the situation but Leila didn't stop.

She tore her arm away, the action sharp and decisive. She broke into a run, her footsteps echoing in the silence he had created. Tears blurred her vision, hot and unwelcome, a testament to a vulnerability she had long denied. She wiped them away with a furious hand, refusing to succumb to the weakness they represented. She was Leila, the Blackthorn Siren, a force to be reckoned with, not a heartbroken fool. Yet, beneath the hardened exterior, a raw ache pulsed, a wound inflicted by the very man she had allowed to see past the mask.

She burst through the compound's main entrance, the rain a cold, stinging curtain against her skin. Luke and Kieran, who had been monitoring the perimeter, turned, their faces etched with confusion.

"Leila? What's going on?" Luke asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Boss told us to wait for you two and the others," Kieran added, his brow furrowed. "What happened in there?"

Leila didn't answer. She shoved past them, her movements sharp and desperate, a whirlwind of emotion.

"Leila, wait!" Luke called out, reaching for her arm.

She wrenched herself free, her eyes blazing with a pain that made them both flinch. "Leave me alone," she snarled, her voice thick with unshed tears.

Before they could react, she was gone, swallowed by the rain-soaked darkness of the city. They exchanged a bewildered glance, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air.

Inside the compound, Sylus remained frozen, his outstretched hand trembling slightly. The weight of his actions pressed down on him, a crushing burden of guilt and regret. He had silenced Celeste, not to protect himself, but to protect Leila, to shield her from the truth he knew would shatter her. He had thought he was able to bury that piece of truth, but now, watching the emptiness where she had stood, he realized the devastating cost of his choices.

His eyes, usually so cold and calculating, reflected a turmoil he rarely allowed himself to feel. He had broken her trust, and in doing so, he had broken something within himself. He had pushed her away, the one person who had dared to see past his carefully constructed facade. The silence of the compound was a deafening reminder of his failure, the echo of her retreating footsteps a haunting melody of loss.

---

The rain-slicked alleyways became Leila's sanctuary, a chaotic labyrinth where she could disappear. Usually a place of calculated movements and precise strikes, now echoed with the energy of her evol. Each step, each touch, left no trace. Security cameras flickered and died, their recordings a blank slate. Digital trails vanished, leaving behind only static and confusion. Moving through the city's veins, she left nothing but an unsettling emptiness in her wake.

The bounty on her head remained. Hunters, desperate for the reward, swarmed the city's shadows. They found her, eventually. They always did. A group of them, hardened mercenaries with cybernetic enhancements and heavy weaponry, cornered her in a derelict warehouse, their faces grim, their eyes hungry.

"Siren," the leader growled, his voice distorted by a vocal modulator. "We're here to collect."

Leila stood, her posture loose, almost careless. The betrayal, the gaping wound Sylus had inflicted, had stripped her of her usual precision. She fought, yes, but with a reckless abandon that bordered on self-destruction.

Blades flashed, bullets whizzed, energy crackled. She moved like a whirlwind, a blur of lethal grace, but there was a wildness to her movements, a disregard for her own safety. She took hits she would normally avoid, ignored wounds that would usually send her into a calculated retreat.

A blade sliced across her arm, drawing a hiss of pain. She barely flinched, her eyes burning with a cold, distant fury. She retaliated with a brutal efficiency, her blade finding its mark, silencing her attacker with a sickening thud.

The fight was a brutal dance of death, a macabre ballet performed in the shadows. Leila fought with a ferocity born of despair, a reckless abandon that made her even more dangerous. She didn't care if she lived or died. The betrayal had hollowed her out, leaving only a burning rage that fueled her every move.

When the last mercenary fell, she stood amidst the carnage, her breath ragged, her body battered and bruised. The rain seeped through the warehouse's broken roof, washing away the blood, leaving her standing in the cold, empty silence. She looked down at her bloody hands, and the wounds that littered her body, and felt nothing. No pain, no fear, no remorse. Just a hollow, empty ache. She was a walking void, not caring what happened next.

---

The silence in the command center was a suffocating shroud, each tick of the clock a hammer blow against his composure. Leila was gone, a phantom, erased from every screen, every sensor. His most sophisticated systems, usually his instruments of absolute control, were now useless, mocking him with their blank, empty displays. She was a ghost, a whisper of smoke in a city he thought he owned.

He clenched his fist, the knuckles bone-white, trembling slightly. Frustration tore at him, a desperate, unfamiliar fear. He had lost her, not just physically, but emotionally, to the very shadows he once commanded.

"Any sign?" he rasped, his voice a broken growl, barely audible. He ran a hand through his usually meticulously styled hair, leaving it disheveled and wild. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his crimson eyes, a stark contrast to their usual sharp intensity. He hadn't slept in days, the image of Leila's betrayed eyes burning into his mind, keeping him awake, torturing him.

Luke and Kieran exchanged worried glances, their faces etched with a concern he usually inspired in others. "Nothing, boss," Kieran replied, his voice subdued, strained. "It's like she vanished. Clean."

"Her evol," Luke added, his voice trailing off, laced with a hesitant fear. "It makes her untraceable. Completely."

Untraceable. The word echoed in his mind, a mocking reminder of his own supposed invulnerability. He had underestimated her, dismissed the depth of her pain, the power of her abilities. He had pushed her away, and now, he was drowning in the consequences.

He paced the room, his movements erratic, a caged predator in a space that suddenly felt too small. The silence amplified the frantic pounding of his heart, a desperate drumbeat against his ribs, a constant, agonizing reminder of his failure. He had to find her. He had to. It wasn't just about control anymore; it was about… something he couldn't quite name, something raw and desperate, something that felt terrifyingly close to love. A concept that was foreign, and terrifying to him.

But as he stared at the blank screens, the chilling reality began to sink in. Finding her was only the beginning. He had shattered her trust, ripped apart the fragile bond they had built. Could he ever mend the damage? Could he ever face her again, knowing the pain he had inflicted?

Doubt, a foreign, corrosive emotion, gnawed at him. He felt a sickening lurch in his gut, a raw, almost physical pain. He had lost control, not just of the situation, but of himself. He was adrift, lost in a sea of his own making, and he didn't know how to navigate the storm. He was a man unraveling.

He turned, his eyes blazing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I'm going out," he growled, his voice hoarse. "I'm finding her myself."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a worried glance. "Boss, you can't just—"

"I'm not asking," Sylus interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm telling you. I'm going out there."

Luke and Kieran hesitated, their faces etched with concern. They knew better than to argue with Sylus when he was like this, but they also knew he was operating on pure emotion, that he was a danger to himself.

"We're coming with you," Luke said firmly. "We can help."

Kieran nodded in agreement. "We're a team, boss. We'll find her together."

Sylus glared at them, his eyes narrowed. He turned away, his shoulders slumped, the weight of his emotions heavy upon him.

The hunt for Leila was about to begin, and it would be a desperate, dangerous, and profoundly personal affair.

---

Leila slumped against the cold brick wall, her body a battlefield of agony. A fortnight. Fourteen relentless days of running, fighting, bleeding. Days without sleep, without respite. She had held on with sheer will alone, but now—now, she was at her limit. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one a struggle, each one a reminder that she was still alive—for now. The world blurred at the edges, her vision swimming, twisting. She could feel it—the weight of death creeping closer.

Pain was a living thing, coiling around her like a serpent, fangs buried deep. The gunshot wound in her shoulder throbbed in a slow, merciless rhythm, the bullet still lodged inside, sending fire through her veins. Blood seeped from two stab wounds—one in her side, dangerously deep, the other just below her ribs. Every breath pulled at the open flesh, making her feel as though she were being torn apart from the inside.

She pressed a trembling hand to her side, but it was useless. There was too much blood. Warm, sticky, pooling beneath her as it soaked into the cold stone. She had won the fight. She always won but it didn't feel like it will be worth it. Eight mercenaries, enhanced, ruthless, in a span of an had come for her, and they had left this world as nothing more than bloodstains on the pavement. But this time, her movements had been different. Slower. Less precise. It wasn’t exhaustion—it was something deeper. She hadn’t cared if she lived.

Every strike she had thrown was automatic, every dodge half a second too late. Her instincts, once honed to perfection, had dulled under the crushing weight of indifference. She should have moved faster. Should have fought harder. Should have cared but she didn’t and now, her body was paying the price.

Her head lolled against the brick wall as her strength bled out alongside her life. She coughed, a wet, broken sound, more blood spilling from her lips. A deep, numbing cold was settling into her limbs, spreading inch by inch. She knew what this meant. The body always shut down like this, conserving what little it had left before giving in entirely. She should be afraid. The old her would have fought harder, clung to life with bared teeth and iron will. But now? She was just so, so tired.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Maybe she’d just close them for a moment.

And then—footsteps. Slow. Steady. Purposeful. A shadow loomed at the mouth of the alley, dark against the dim glow of flickering streetlights. She tried to lift her head, to focus, but her vision was failing her. Her fingers twitched toward the dagger still clutched in her palm, but she couldn't even lift it. Too late. Too weak. Too far gone. Whoever it was, they were coming closer. And Leila… She was too broken to run.

The alleyway echoed with the slow, deliberate rhythm of footsteps, each heavy thud slicing through the suffocating silence like a blade. Sylus moved with a predatory grace, his senses heightened, his gaze scanning the shadows. But this wasn't his usual calculated hunt. This was driven by something raw, something desperate, a primal need to find her.

The moment he saw her, his breath stilled, his heart seizing in his chest.

She was a broken doll, slumped against the cold brick wall, her body a canvas of crimson and grime. Blood pooled beneath her, a dark, creeping stain that seemed to spread with every agonizing second. The sight ripped through him, a brutal, physical blow that stole the air from his lungs.

"No," he breathed, a guttural sound escaping his lips. He broke into a sprint, his movements frantic, desperate.

She was barely holding on, her fingers twitching weakly, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak. But her eyes were glazed, unfocused, and before she could even register his presence, before she could see that it was him—she surrendered. Her body went limp, her head lolling to the side.

'Leila!' He caught her before she could collapse entirely, his arms wrapping around her fragile frame. He could feel the sickening warmth of her blood soaking into his clothes, clinging to his skin like a macabre embrace. It was everywhere, staining his hands, his sleeves, his very soul. His pulse roared in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. He pressed a trembling hand to her cheek, his touch feather-light, almost afraid to break her. Her skin was deathly pale, cold, her breaths shallow, barely there.

His earpiece crackled to life, a distant intrusion on his terror. "I found her," Sylus said, his voice tight, dangerously low. "Get the medical team at the base. Call the doctor. I'll meet you there. Now."

A primal instinct took over. He couldn't bear to lay her down, to set her aside. He needed to feel her, to hold her close, to keep her from slipping away entirely. With a careful, almost desperate motion, he adjusted her in his arms, cradling her against his chest as if she were a precious, fragile thing.

He moved with a fierce, almost reckless urgency, his movements betraying the normally precise, controlled man. He placed her as best he could within the vehicle, while still maintaining as much contact as possible. One arm stayed wrapped around her, while the other took control of the vehicle. The engine roared to life, tires screeching against the pavement. His free hand tightened around the wheel, knuckles white, his grip a desperate anchor in the storm raging within him.

"Please, just hold on a little longer for me, kitten." he whispered, his voice hoarse, a desperate plea to the fading life in his arms.

Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the road ahead, but he refused to let them fall. He never let them fall but now, they burned, an agonizing ache behind his lids.

By the time he reached the base, the medical team was already waiting, their faces grim, their movements efficient. He didn't waste a second. He carried her inside, laying her down on the cot as the doctors swarmed around her, their voices sharp and urgent. His clothes, his hands, even his neck—everything was smeared with her blood, a stark, horrifying testament to her injuries.

Sylus stepped back as he watched the doctors swarm Leila's barely breathing body, his stomach twisting into a knot of nausea as he watched them work to save her. Her battered body, the deep gashes and cuts, the fresh, brutal wounds—this wasn't the Leila he knew. The Blackthorn Siren had always been a force of nature, a whirlwind of lethal grace. Elegant, precise, untouchable. Every move she made was calculated, a deadly dance of power and control. But now…

Now, she was broken, vulnerable, a shadow of her former self. Her wounds told a story of a fight not fought with her usual precision, a fight where she hadn't cared if she lived or died. Sylus’ breath staggered, a cold dread settling in his chest, a chilling premonition that stole the warmth from his blood.

It hit him then, like a physical blow, a blade sinking into his ribs, twisting with agonizing precision—she had given up. She had stopped fighting for herself. The realization was a crushing weight, a suffocating darkness that threatened to consume him.

His chest tightened, a vice clamping down on his lungs, something sharp and suffocating settling in his throat, a burning ache that made it difficult to swallow. He tore his gaze away, unable to bear the sight of her broken form any longer, the image seared into his mind. Without a word, he turned and walked out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical, like a puppet with its strings cut.

His office door slammed shut behind him, sealing him in a suffocating silence, a tomb of his own making. The silence amplified the frantic pounding of his heart, a desperate drumbeat against his ribs. He lifted his hands, staring at them, at the crimson stains that clung to his skin like a second, horrifying layer. Hands that had shaped an empire, hands that had wielded power without hesitation. Hands that were now painted with her blood, a damning testament to his failure.

"This is my fault."

The realization settled over him like a noose tightening around his throat, choking the air from his lungs, a suffocating darkness that threatened to extinguish his very being. He had betrayed her. He had made her a target. And now, he was an inch away from losing the one person who had dared to see beyond the ruthless facade he had perfected for years, the one person who had dared to see the man beneath the monster.

His fingers curled into fists, trembling with impotent rage, a silent scream against the injustice of his own actions.

For the first time in his life, Sylus felt truly, utterly helpless. He was a man drowning in the consequences of his own actions, a man terrified of losing the light he had so carelessly extinguished, a light that had begun to illuminate the darkness within himself.

---

The days bled into one another, a monotonous cycle of silence and anxious anticipation. Leila remained suspended between worlds, her breaths shallow and even, a fragile rhythm against the backdrop of Sylus's bedroom's unnerving stillness. The rhythmic drip of the IV, a slow, steady pulse, was the only sound that dared to break the oppressive quiet, a constant reminder of her fragile hold on life.

Sylus sat vigil by the bedside, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on her still form. The room, usually a testament to their shared bond, now felt like a prison, a place where time stretched and distorted, each passing moment an agonizing eternity.

He held her hand, the one encased in a cast, his fingers tracing the childish doodles that Luke and Kieran had surreptitiously drawn. He allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his lips. Those bastards. Even in the face of such grim circumstances, they found a way to inject their brand of irreverent humor. He had half a mind to be annoyed, but the small act of defiant levity was a welcome distraction from the crushing weight of his guilt.

Leila's body was clean now, the crimson stains of battle washed away, replaced by sterile bandages that wrapped around the gunshot wound on her shoulder and the brutal stab wounds on her side and abdomen. The sight of her, so still, so vulnerable, was a stark contrast to the fierce, indomitable woman he knew.

He watched her chest rise and fall, the steady rhythm a fragile beacon of hope in the suffocating darkness. It was even, a testament to the medical team's skill. She was going to make it. He knew it. But the question that gnawed at him, the question that kept him tethered to this sterile room, was when. When would she wake? When would those vibrant eyes open, those sharp, intelligent eyes that held the weight of a thousand untold stories?

He longed for her voice, the sharp wit, the sardonic humor that could cut through his carefully constructed defenses. He longed for the spark of defiance, the fire that burned within her, the fire that he had so carelessly extinguished. He knew he didn't deserve her forgiveness. He knew he had shattered her trust, ripped away her strength. But he also knew, with a chilling certainty, that he would spend the rest of his life trying to earn it back. He would spend every waking moment trying to rekindle the flame he had so foolishly allowed to die.

He tightened his grip on her hand, his touch gentle, almost pleading. "Wake up, Leila," he whispered, his voice rough with unshed emotion. "Please. Come back to me."

The silence stretched on, unbroken, heavy with unspoken emotions and the fragile hope that clung to the rhythm of her breathing. He waited, a silent sentinel in the sterile stillness, a man desperate for a second chance. His thumb traced absent patterns over her fingers. His head was bowed, his jaw tight, exhaustion weighing heavy on his frame.

Then—so faint he almost missed it—her fingers twitched beneath his touch. Sylus stilled. His breath hitched.

His head snapped up, eyes locking onto her hand, willing the movement to happen again. Another slight shift—delicate, weak, but real. His gaze flew to her face just as her eyelids fluttered, the first signs of waking stirring across her features.

He barely breathed as her lashes lifted, revealing dazed, unfocused eyes.

A slow, disoriented awakening.

The world swam into focus for her, a soft, muted blur. She blinked sluggishly, her brows knitting together as she tried to push through the haze clouding her mind. Sylus watched, his grip tightening around her fingers, the relief crashing into him so forcefully it left him unsteady.

"Leila," he murmured, voice rough, barely more than a whisper.

But she was already lost in her own confusion, trying to piece together the fragments of her last memory—the alleyway, the blood, the cold bite of betrayal—before finally, her gaze met his.

A flicker of recognition passed through Leila’s half-lidded eyes, but it was distant, fogged by exhaustion and pain. Her breath hitched as her mind sluggishly fought to bridge the gap between then and now. Sylus stayed utterly still, watching the realization settle, the way her pupils dilated slightly as memories crept back in. He could see it—when she remembered the betrayal. When she remembered the knife in her back, the sting of deception. Her fingers twitched again, but this time not in weakness. In restraint.

She felt the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers, grounding, steady. Yet, Leila didn’t pull away. Not yet. Her lips parted, dry and cracked, but no words came. Sylus reacted instantly, reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table. He slid a hand beneath her head, carefully lifting her just enough to press the rim of the cup to her lips.

"Slow," he murmured, watching the way her throat worked as she swallowed.

A few sips were all she managed before she turned her head slightly, breath shallow, eyes sharpening ever so slightly as they found his. He could see the question forming before she spoke. Could feel it in the shift of her energy, in the unsteady way her gaze darted around Sylus's room. Her voice was barely audible when she finally spoke."Why am I alive?"

Sylus exhaled, a slow drag of breath as he leaned back slightly. He rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as he considered his answer. "Because I wouldn’t let you die."

Leila stared at him, her eyes narrowed, her expression a mask of cold fury. The confusion she had felt earlier was gone, replaced by a burning resentment.

"Are you finished with your knight in shining armor skit?" she said, her voice rough, laced with a venomous edge.

The words were sharp, barbed, meant to wound. All she felt was the sting of betrayal, the agonizing pain of his deception.

Sylus flinched, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He had expected anger, but the sheer intensity of her fury took him aback.

"Leila—" he began, his voice pleading, but she cut him off.

"Don't," she snarled, her voice rising. She tried to sit up further, but the pain in her side flared, forcing her to gasp.

She continued, her voice trembling with rage. "You think this will make up for it? You think that will erase what you did?"

She glared at him, her eyes burning with a hatred that chilled him to the bone. The room was thick with tension, the air crackling with unspoken accusations and unresolved pain. Sylus sat frozen, the weight of her fury a heavy, suffocating presence.

Fueled by a desperate need to escape his presence, pushed herself up from the bed. The room spun, the edges of her vision blurring, but she ignored the dizziness. She had to get out, had to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man who had shattered her trust. She took a shaky step, then another, her legs wobbly and unsteady. The pain in her side, a dull throb until now, flared into a searing inferno. She hissed, her breath catching in her throat, but she pressed on, determined to reach the door.

The sound of her yelp echoed through the room, cutting through the tense silence. Sylus, who had been sitting frozen, his gaze fixed on her retreating back, reacted instantly. He was at her side in a heartbeat, his face etched with concern.

He was there in an instant, his grip firm but careful as he steadied her against him. His warmth was overwhelming, the scent of him—clean, sharp, unmistakably him—flooding her senses. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other supporting her back as he eased her upright.

“Dammit, Leila,” he hissed, his voice rough with something she couldn’t place. “You’re tearing your stitches.”

She struggled against him, pushing weakly at his chest. “Let me go.”

“Like hell I will.” His hold tightened as he lifted her effortlessly, ignoring her feeble attempts to shove him away. The pain in her side flared with every movement, sending another wave of dizziness crashing over her.

“Fuck,” she groaned, her fingers curling into his shirt despite herself.

Sylus exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “This is exactly why you need to stay in bed.”

He carried her back to the mattress, lowering her carefully, his touch gentler than she wanted to admit. The moment he let go, she turned her head away, furious at the weakness in her body, at the way she had to rely on him.

“Why are you doing this?” she muttered, her voice laced with exhaustion and resentment.

Sylus stilled, his eyes unreadable as he looked at her. Then, with a quiet, almost resigned sigh, he murmured, “Because I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then why did you do it?” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

Sylus, who had just been adjusting the fresh bandages over her wound, stilled. Leila turned her head slightly, her gaze locking onto him. “Why did you agree with Dainhart to have me killed? Why didn't you say anything?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching as if he were weighing his words. Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair before resting his elbows on his knees.

“When the bounty was first placed, I didn’t know who you were,” he admitted, his voice steady but laced with something she couldn’t quite place. “I didn’t care. You were just another name. Another problem to eliminate before it got too big.”

Leila’s breath hitched, but she forced herself to stay quiet, to listen.

“You were becoming a liability,” Sylus continued, his blood-tinted eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Too many contracts turned down because people were too afraid to go after you. Too much noise, too many bodies left in your wake.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “And I don’t allow liabilities to get in my way.”

Leila’s fingers clenched tighter around the sheets. His gaze met hers then, and for once, she saw it in his eyes. Regret.

“But that was before,” he said, quieter now. “Before I actually met you. Before I saw you fight, before I realized how goddamn determined you were. How you refused to break, even when the odds were against you.” His throat bobbed slightly. “Before I knew what it felt like to have you right there beside me.”

Leila’s heart pounded painfully in her chest, her mind screaming at her to look away, to shut him out. But she didn’t.

“Before I felt something different,” he murmured. The words sent a sharp pang through her, something unsteady, something dangerous.

She should hate him. She wanted to hate him but as she lay there, breathing heavily, staring at the man who had once plotted her downfall— She wasn’t sure if she still did. Leila's heart pounded in her chest, a chaotic rhythm against the backdrop of the room's silence. She stared at Sylus, his words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to cling to the anger, the betrayal, the pain. It was easier than facing the confusing storm brewing within her.

"What are you saying?" she whispered, her voice hoarse, her vulnerability laid bare despite her attempts to hide it.

Sylus's gaze intensified, his eyes burning with a desperate sincerity. "I'm saying… I'm saying that I was wrong, Leila. About everything. About you, about myself."

He moved closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her face. His touch was hesitant, almost reverent.

"I exist here like a blade sharpened by cold calculation," he continued, his voice low, rough with emotion. "I came to put out a fire, to end a threat before it grew. But you… you weren’t just a fire to be snuffed out or a storm to be calmed. You were something bigger—untamed, unstoppable. A force all your own."

He paused, his throat working. "I've never felt this way before. This… this pull, this need to be near someone. To protect them, to… to cherish them." He looked away for a moment, then back at her, his eyes filled with a pure honesty.

"What I'm trying to say is… You've carved yourself into me in ways I can't undo. No matter how hard I try, I can't walk away—I don't want to. You're in every breath, every thought, every goddamn piece of me."

The words hung in the air, a fragile, terrifying confession, a poetic surrender. Leila's breath hitched. Her heart seemed to stop, then erupt into a frantic rhythm. Love. The word felt foreign, dangerous, and yet undeniably potent.

She wanted to deny it, to scoff, to push him away. But the look in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability he was displaying, it chipped away at the walls she had built around herself. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She wanted to hate him, but she couldn't deny the truth that was echoing in her own heart.

"Sylus…" she whispered, her voice trembling.

He leaned closer, his gaze searching hers. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know I broke your trust. But I swear to you, Leila, I will spend the rest of my life trying to earn it back. I will spend the rest of my life trying to show you how much I… how much you mean to me."

He moved closer, his hand cupping her cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent. He leaned in, his lips hovering over hers.

"Can I?" he murmured, his voice a desperate plea.

She didn't answer with words. She leaned in, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was both tentative and desperate, a fragile bridge built over the chasm of their broken trust. It was a kiss of forgiveness, a kiss of hope, a kiss of something that felt terrifyingly like… love, a love that was a dangerous, consuming fire.

The kiss lingered, a fragile truce in the battle raging within her. Leila's eyes fluttered open, her gaze locking with Sylus's. The vulnerability in his eyes, the desperate sincerity, made her heart ache. She wanted to cling to the anger, to push him away, to rebuild the walls he had so effortlessly shattered. But the truth, the undeniable truth that echoed in her own heart, made it impossible.

A small, shaky laugh escaped her lips, a sound that was both fragile and defiant. "That's one poetic way of saying you love me," she murmured, her voice still rough from disuse, a hint of her old sardonic wit cutting through the emotional tension.

The words, though laced with a hint of humor, held a weight that made Sylus's breath catch in his throat. He had laid his soul bare, offering her a confession as raw and unfiltered as the blood that had stained his hands. A faint smile touched his lips, a smile that was both relieved and vulnerable. "Is it too much?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Too dramatic?"

Leila's gaze softened, the anger that had burned so brightly dimming into a fragile understanding. "It's… you," she said, her voice quiet. "It's dramatic, intense, and utterly ridiculous. Just like you."

She reached up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, her touch hesitant, almost reverent. "But it's also… affectionate," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "And that, Sylus, is something I never thought I'd see from the leader of Onychinus."

The fragile moment of understanding between Leila and Sylus hung in the air, a delicate balance between vulnerability and hope. Then, the door slid open with a whoosh, shattering the intimacy of the moment. Luke and Kieran stood in the doorway, their expressions a mixture of surprise and something akin to smug amusement.

"Well, well, well," Luke drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "Look who's all lovey-dovey. Sylus and Leila, making up already?"

Kieran snorted, stepping forward. "Yeah, we were expecting a week of brooding and intense staring contests, at least. Guess we were wrong. Did you two finally figure out how to play nice?"

Leila, despite the lingering pain, managed a wry smirk. "You're lucky I'm not mobile enough to kick your asses right now."

"Aw, come on, Leila," Luke protested, but there was a hint of caution in his voice. "We're just messing around. Besides, we brought celebratory drinks." He held up a bottle of something that looked suspiciously like expensive whiskey.

Kieran, ever the instigator, added, "Yeah, you know, for the happy couple. A toast to… whatever this is." He exclaimed.

Sylus didn't bother looking at Luke and Kieran. He simply sat, his back to them, and the air around the door shimmered, a barely perceptible distortion. Without a word, without a glance, the door slammed shut with a resounding bang, the sound echoing through the room, a final, emphatic dismissal. The force of his evol was subtle, but undeniable.

Leila's smile faltered, and Sylus caught it instantly. His sharp gaze flicked to her face, reading the subtle shift in her expression “What’s wrong? What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with concern.

She hesitated for only a moment before exhaling. “Dainhart.”

Sylus’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening at the mention of the name. “You don’t have to worry about him. I sent men out in the field, gathering information about his current loca—”

Leila cut him off, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. “What if we do nothing,” she said flatly. “Let the bounty die out. I’m staying here—where no one will find me.”

Sylus’s expression darkened instantly. He turned to face her fully, his eyes burning with something sharp, something barely restrained. “You almost died because of that bounty, Leila,” he said, his voice low but edged with steel. “Because of him.”

She met his gaze, unwavering. “He’s a rat. Cowards like him go into hiding and every time a cat goes near.”

Sylus let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “People don’t forget a price like that. You think if you lay low, it’ll just disappear? That no one will come sniffing around?” His tone was harsh now, but there was an undercurrent of frustration—of something deeper.

Leila’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need you handling my problems, Sylus.”

His eyes flashed. “Handling your problems?” He leaned in slightly, his presence suffocating, the space between them charged. “Do you even hear yourself? You think this is just your problem?”

Leila stared at him, pulse steady despite the shift in the air. “The bounty is on my head, not yours.”

“And who do you think amplified it?” His words landed like a punch, and for a brief second, something flickered in her expression. Sylus didn’t look away. “Dainhart put the target on your back, but I made sure every merc, assassin, and bounty hunter knew exactly how valuable you are.” His voice was razor-sharp now, deliberate. “So no, Leila. This isn’t just your problem.”

Her fingers curled into the sheets, but she kept her tone cool. “And now you want to clean up the mess you helped on making?”

His jaw clenched. “I want him dead.” The words were final, absolute. “And I want the bounty erased. Not left to fade. Not left lingering in the dark where it can resurface when it’s convenient. Gone.”

Leila let out a slow breath, studying him. “So that’s what this is about,” she murmured. “You don’t just want him gone. You want to make a statement.”

Sylus tilted his head slightly. “And you don’t?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, feeling the weight of it. Then, finally, she sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t like being hunted,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to make a spectacle of it anymore.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The flickering light above cast jagged shadows across his face, sharpening the fury simmering just beneath his skin. “A spectacle?” His voice was low at first, but the frustration bled into something sharper, louder. “You almost died, Leila, and you’re worried about making a damn spectacle?”

Leila didn’t flinch, but her fingers dug into the sheets, bracing.

Sylus took a step back, running a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. Then, just as quickly, he turned back to her, ruby-like eyes ablaze. “You think this is something you can just wait out? That hiding here in the base is enough? That people will just forget about the bounty?”

His voice rose, breaking past the usual cold control he always wielded. “That’s not how this works, Leila! You don’t just disappear and hope the world moves on. As long as Dainhart is breathing, there will always be someone looking for you. Waiting. Watching.” He gestured sharply, his fury crackling in the air. “I refuse to sit back and watch them take another shot at you—watch you bleed out in my arms again!”

Leila’s breath hitched, but she kept her gaze locked on him, unyielding. “Sylus—”

“No.” His voice cut through the space between them, hard and unrelenting. He was breathing heavier now, barely keeping himself in check. “You don’t get to tell me to do nothing.”

Sylus exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before pinching the bridge of his nose. He stayed like that for a moment, forcing himself to rein in the frustration simmering beneath his skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, rougher.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” He glanced at her, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I just—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t like that you almost died because of this.”

Leila held his gaze, studying him carefully. He wasn’t just angry—he was furious at himself, at Dainhart, at the entire situation. But underneath all of that, there was something else. Something true. A beat of silence passed between them. Then, quieter, more vulnerable, he added, “I was scared.”

It wasn’t an easy admission, but it was the truth. The sight of her bleeding out, of her barely holding on—it had lodged itself deep in his chest, refusing to let go. Leila studied him, the rawness in his voice settling deep in her chest. She could still feel the echo of his earlier anger, but now, stripped of its edge, it left behind something far more telling—something she wasn’t sure how to name.

Leila’s throat tightened, but she forced a smirk, tilting her head slightly. “Didn’t think anything scared the great Sylus of Onychinus.”

He huffed a short, humorless chuckle. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

A humorless smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before it faded just as quickly. “Let’s get you healed up first,” he murmured. “Then we’ll talk about it.”

Leila arched a brow. “You mean argue about it.”

Sylus huffed a quiet laugh. “Probably.” His thumb brushed absently against her bandaged knuckles, a fleeting moment of warmth before he pulled away. “But not now.”

Leila gave a slow nod, her gaze following Sylus as he stood. Her eyes fluttered shut when he pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. The warmth of it seeped into her skin. When he pulled away, his voice was low, steady. “I’ll get you some food.”

As Sylus turned toward the door, his hand resting on the handle, Leila spoke—soft, hesitant, yet undeniably certain. “Sylus.”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. She held his gaze, something unguarded flickering in her expression. Then, before she could second-guess herself, she said it. “I love you.”

The words hung in the air between them, quiet but undeniable. Sylus stilled, his fingers tightening around the door handle. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stood there as if the weight of her words had knocked the breath from his lungs.

Leila swallowed, her heart pounding, but she refused to take it back. She had never needed words to define what she felt, never saw the point in them. But right now, she needed him to hear it. Slowly, Sylus turned to face her fully. His eyes burned with something unreadable, something sharp and consuming. He crossed the space between them in a few deliberate steps, lowering himself onto the bed until they were eye to eye.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face before resting lightly against her cheek. He didn’t speak—not yet. Instead, he just looked at her, as if memorizing every detail, as if letting her words settle deep into the parts of him no one else could reach. Then, his thumb traced gently over her cheekbone, his voice rough when he finally answered. “Say it again.”

Leila let out a breath, shaking her head. “You heard it the first time, I’m not repeating it.”

Something in Sylus’s expression shifted. He let out a quiet, almost breathless chuckle, shaking his head as if in disbelief. Then, after a pause, he exhaled and said it himself. “I love you.”

The words came out steady, firm, without hesitation. As if they had always been there, waiting to be spoken. Leila blinked, lips parting slightly, but she didn’t speak. She only looked at him, taking in the way he watched her—like he had just given away something sacred. Sylus leaned in then, pressing his forehead against hers, his hand cupping her cheek with a touch so unlike the ruthless man he was known to be.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice quieter now, like a vow. “And I’m yours.”

---

The gym, a cavernous space filled with the rhythmic thump of heavy bags and the metallic tang of exertion, was Sylus's sanctuary. If he wasn't immersed in the labyrinthine workings of his study, he sought refuge here, amidst the controlled chaos of physical discipline. Tonight, the boxing ring, bathed in the harsh glow of overhead lights, was their shared domain.

Leila stood poised before him, her stance a testament to her resilient spirit, despite the lingering fragility of her injured shoulder. After days confined to the confines of her bed, she had finally ventured back into the world of movement, seeking to reclaim the strength that had been so violently stolen. The bandages, a stark white against her skin, served as a constant, unwelcome reminder of her brush with mortality.

Sylus, dressed in a sleek black tank top that accentuated the lean musculature of his arms and a pair of dark, loose-fitting shorts that hinted at the power coiled beneath, observed her with a keen, almost clinical eye. Crimson hand wraps, a splash of vibrant color against his dark attire, encased his fists. He watched as Leila executed a punch, her form precise, yet lacking its usual fluid grace. The moment her fist extended, a sharp intake of breath escaped her lips, her free hand instinctively cradling her injured shoulder.

Sylus exhaled, a low, controlled sound, and closed the distance between them. "You're still compensating," he stated, his voice a low rumble that cut through the ambient noise of the gym. "A proper punch isn't just about the arm. It's a symphony of movement—rotation through the shoulder, engagement of the core, a push from the ground up through the legs. Power stems from control, not brute force."

Leila's jaw tightened, a flash of frustration in her eyes. "I know how to throw a punch, Sylus."

A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. "Not with a fucked shoulder, you don't."

She huffed, rotating her shoulder in a tight circle before settling back into her stance. "Let me try again."

He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her determined expression, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. "One more. But if you hiss in pain again, we're done for the night."

Leila inhaled deeply, her focus laser-sharp. She unleashed a punch, sharper, more controlled than the last, but the instant the motion strained her wound, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, her fingers instinctively seeking the protective embrace of her shoulder.

"There it is." Sylus stated, his voice firm yet laced with a quiet understanding. "Let's call it a night, kitten."

Leila exhaled through her nose, a frustrated sigh. "No, it's fine."

"You said that thirty minutes ago." He crossed his arms over his chest, a single brow arched in silent reproach. "Come on. You need to allow it to heal. Don't push it."

A beat of tense silence hung in the air, then, with a reluctant sigh, she lowered her hands. "Fine."

Sylus stepped forward, his gaze softening, the intensity replaced by a gentle concern. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering for a fleeting moment before he leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips. When he pulled away, a ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "You're getting better," he murmured, his voice a low caress.

Leila huffed, a hint of her usual defiance returning. "Not fast enough."

His grip on her waist tightened imperceptibly. "Then we'll continue. But not tonight."

He guided her out of the ring, his touch firm yet gentle, and for once, she offered no resistance. Leila took a long sip of water, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. She leaned back against the gym wall, her muscles protesting with a dull ache, a reminder of her recent injuries. The exertion, though minimal, had taken its toll. Sylus watched her, his expression softening as he took in her slightly flushed cheeks and the lingering weariness in her eyes. He retrieved a towel from a nearby bench and approached her, his movements gentle.

"Here," he murmured, offering her the towel.

Leila accepted it with a grateful smile, wiping the light sheen of sweat from her forehead. "Thanks."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the only sound the gentle hum of the gym's ventilation system. Sylus sat beside her, his gaze lingering on her face. "You pushed yourself too hard," he said softly, his voice laced with concern.

Leila shrugged, a hint of her usual defiance returning. "I needed to see where I was at."

Sylus reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. "You're healing," he said, his voice a low caress. "But you need to be patient."

Leila leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. "Patience isn't exactly my strong suit."

A soft chuckle rumbled in Sylus's chest. "I've noticed."

He gently pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. Leila rested her head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a soothing counterpoint to the lingering ache in her body. The silence stretched between them, comfortable and warm, filled with unspoken emotions.

"You know," Leila murmured, her voice soft against his chest, "you're surprisingly good at this."

Sylus chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Good at what?"

"Being… gentle," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I was expecting more of the 'you will rest, and you will obey' routine."

Sylus smirked, his fingers brushing along Leila’s jaw before he leaned in, his lips a breath away from her ear. “Oh, kitten,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something dark and teasing. “If you wanted me to make you obey, you’d be too sore to be throwing punches.”

Leila froze for half a second before a slow, knowing smile curled on her lips. “Bold of you to assume I’d obey in the first place.”

Sylus chuckled, pressing a fleeting kiss just below her ear before pulling away, satisfaction gleaming in his red eyes. “We’ll test that theory later.”

He chuckled but didn’t push further. Instead, he straightened, running a hand through his sweat-dampened silver hair before his expression hardened again. “Now, about what we discussed before—Dainhart.”

Leila sighed, already knowing where this was going. “Sylus—”

“No.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting this die out, and I’m sure as hell not waiting around for him to make his next move.” He turned fully to her, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I told you—I want him dead, and I want that bounty wiped out. End of discussion.”

Leila tilted her head, studying him. “So, no matter what I say, you won’t let this go?”

“Not a chance.” His eyes burned with resolve. “You’re not walking around with a target on your back. I won’t allow it.”

She let out a long sigh, her shoulders dropping in reluctant acceptance. “Fine,” she muttered, meeting his gaze. “But if we’re doing this, I’m involved in every step. Every decision, every move—you don’t shut me out.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, making it clear she wasn’t asking. “Deal?”

Sylus studied her for a moment, his red eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, a slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Deal,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “As long as you remember—being involved means following my lead when it counts.”

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face before his fingers trailed down to her chin, tilting it up slightly. “Think you can handle that, kitten?” A question to which Leila rolled her eyes to but still nodded.

His tone still carried that teasing edge, but his expression soon sobered as he sat up straighter, fingers tapping idly against his knee. “Since you’re so restless,” he mused, “you can join tonight’s debriefing. My men have gathered intel on Dainhart’s movements—you should hear it firsthand.”

Leila tilted her head. “You’re finally gonna let me sit in?”

He arched a brow. “I figured that now you agreed to my decision, you’d want to hear it firsthand rather than have me tell you everything in bed.” His hand drifted to her waist, squeezing lightly. “And I prefer having you where I can see you.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away as they left the gym together, heading back toward his study.

When they arrived, the room was already occupied. Several of Sylus’s most trusted men—including Luke and Kieran—stood waiting. But instead of stopping at her usual spot in front of his desk, Sylus pulled her beside him, settling her at his right with his hand resting possessively on her waist.

The subtle shift in position didn’t go unnoticed. Most men showed a curious expression before returning composure, except for Luke and Kieran, who had known about their relationship even before I started. Leila remained impassive, but she could feel the weight of their curiosity pressing in. Sylus, however, was completely unfazed. If anything, the corner of his lips twitched with amusement, as if daring anyone to comment.

"Let’s get started," he said smoothly, his fingers briefly tightening against her hip before he turned his attention to the report.

One of his men, a strategist named Corin, stepped forward. He placed a file onto the desk and flipped it open, revealing a map with red markings. “We’ve confirmed Dainhart’s new location. He’s holed up in an underground facility in the lower district, just outside the city’s main surveillance grid. It’s heavily guarded, but not impenetrable.”

Leila’s eyes flicked to the map, scanning the details. “How recent is this intel?”

“Less than forty-eight hours,” Corin answered. “We intercepted a message between his men—he’s consolidating forces, but he’s also paranoid. He moves locations frequently, though this seems to be his most secure base so far.”

Sylus leaned forward, tapping a finger against the map. “Escape routes?”

Luke stepped in. “There are three primary exits, all leading into different sectors. But there’s also a hidden tunnel system. If he senses a threat, he’ll vanish before we even breach the main entrance.”

Leila exhaled through her nose. “So we have to cut off his escape before we move in.”

Sylus nodded. “Exactly.” He glanced at her. “That’s why we’re not rushing in. We need to be sure he has nowhere to run.” His gaze returned to his men. “We need a full layout of those tunnels, every possible route he could take.”

Kieran crossed his arms. “Already working on it. We’ll have a full report by morning.”

Leila leaned against the desk, her mind already working through the possibilities. “If we wait too long, he might move again. What’s the window we’re looking at?”

Corin hesitated. “Three, maybe four days. After that, it’s a gamble.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened. “Then we make sure we’re ready before then.” His eyes flicked to Leila. “You wanted to be involved in every step—so tell me, what do you think?”

Leila studied the map for a long moment before meeting his gaze. “I think we make sure his paranoia works against him. Let’s give him a reason to stay put.”

A slow smirk formed on Sylus’s lips. “Now we’re talking.”

The session went smoothly as Leila and Sylus asked questions then receiving concise answers. They ended the meeting quickly, a sense of purpose and shared resolve hanging heavy in the air. Back in their shared bedroom, the steam from the shower enveloped them, a warm, humid cocoon. Leila sighed contentedly, pushing her hair back from her face, the lingering scent of sweat finally washed away.

Sylus stood behind her, his arms circling her waist, his body warm and solid against her back. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. Leila chuckled, the sound muffled against his chest. "Can't you behave this time?"

Sylus didn't answer, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck. He nipped at her skin playfully, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Leila turned to face him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her hands resting on his chest. Their bodies were close, their breaths mingling in the steamy air.

"Do you truly expect restraint when you stand before me all naked?" Sylus murmured, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. He closed the distance between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was both tender and possessive. Leila's arms instinctively tightened around his shoulders, her body arching closer as she rose on her tiptoes, seeking a deeper connection.

With slow, deliberate steps, Sylus guided her towards the frosted glass of the shower, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat that radiated between them. He gently pressed her against the glass, his palm resting beside her head, effectively trapping her, while his other hand traced the delicate curve of her neck. His touch was both firm and gentle, a passion that was about to unfold.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding, yet still laced with a tender reverence. Leila met his passion with her own, her breath catching in her throat as the intensity of their embrace grew.

A soft gasp escaped Leila's lips as Sylus's kiss trailed down her neck, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine. The delicate dance of his tongue against her skin, the gentle pressure of his teeth, sent a wave of heat through her body. A soft curse escaped her lips, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation, as her breath hitched.

In a swift, almost instinctive movement, Leila's palms met the cool, frosted glass, her fingers splayed against the surface. Sylus, his movements fluid and deliberate, trailed kisses down her back, each touch a spark igniting her senses. He then straightened, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of her spine.

A soft cry escaped Leila's lips as Sylus pushed against her, the intimate connection sending a wave of heat through her body. A low groan rumbled in his chest, an expression of the pleasure that coursed through him. He moved slowly, deliberately, each movement a sensual exploration. His grip on Leila's waist tightened, a silent expression of the intensity of their embrace.

Leila's fingers curled into tight fists against the cool glass, her knuckles white, as her body swayed with Sylus's pace and rhythm. The warm cascade of water from the shower above mingled with the heat radiating between them, heightening the sensations that pulsed through her.

A low groan escaped Sylus's lips as he reached for her neck, his touch both possessive and tender. A soft gasp escaped Leila's lips as she felt the warm press of his body against her back. He whispered praises in her ear, his voice husky with desire, each word a caress against her skin. "That's a good fucking kitten," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Just like that. Fuck."

Sylus watched as Leila's head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed, her breath coming in soft gasps. The sounds that escaped her lips, a mixture of pleasure and surrender, fueled a sense of possessive desire within him. The rhythm of their movements intensified, their bodies moving in a synchronized dance of passion.

His left palm anchored against the cool glass, while his other hand traced a slow, deliberate path down her body, lingering on the delicate curves and sensitive skin. He paused, his touch lingering on the most intimate part of her, his fingers gently exploring the source of her pleasure.

"Oh my god, yes." Leila breathed, her voice a husky whisper, as Sylus's touch in quick circles sent waves of pleasure through her body.

A low growl rumbled in Sylus's chest, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. The shared pleasure reached its peak, their bodies shuddering with the force of their release. A soft smile played on Leila's lips as she leaned back against him, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks of their passion. "I can already hear the twins' bickering about not having enough sleep tomorrow morning," she murmured, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Sylus let out a breathy chuckle, his chest still rising and falling to catch his breath. "They’ll survive."

---

The dim glow of the monitors cast eerie shadows across the room, amplifying the tension thickening the air. Dainhart sat rigidly at the edge of his leather chair, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against his knee. His mind, once sharp and untouchable, felt frayed at the edges, gnawed away by an insidious unease.

He had been a step ahead last time. Barely. Celeste had bought him time—her blood had paved his escape. But now, time was running out. His jaw clenched as his eyes flicked to the city skyline beyond the reinforced glass, his own reflection staring back at him, dark and restless. He felt it in his bones: they were coming.

Sylus and Leila. He exhaled sharply, a humorless chuckle scraping his throat. What a twisted turn of fate. Leila should have been dead by now. The bounty on her head should have guaranteed it. He had made certain of that. And Sylus—he had expected Sylus to finish the job when given the opportunity.

After all, they had once been partners. A pairing forged in power, sharpened by ambition. Onychinus and Dainhart—the orchestrators of the underground, the ones who dictated the flow of chaos rather than being swept by it. He had stood beside Sylus in the bloodstained corridors of N109, had trusted in the ruthlessness they both wielded like a weapon.

And yet, Sylus had turned the knife on him instead. Not only had he refused to claim the bounty on Leila, but he had done worse—he had chosen her. Dainhart exhaled slowly, willing the frustration clawing at his chest to settle. Why?

It wasn’t just strategy. Sylus didn’t let sentiment cloud his judgment. If he had seen Leila as a mere tool, he would’ve used her, then discarded her. If he had wanted her dead, he would’ve finished what Dainhart started. So why the hell had he thrown away everything to side with her? The realization struck him like a gunshot to the gut.

Those two are fucking in love with each other.

Dainhart let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face. It all made sense. Sylus wasn’t just protecting an asset—he was protecting her. He wasn’t just hunting Dainhart for revenge—he was making sure she lived. And Leila? She, the infamous Blackthorn Siren, who answered to no one, was fighting beside him.

His stomach twisted, a sharp laugh escaping him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Of all the reasons Sylus could’ve turned against him—money, power, betrayal—he had done it over her. Dainhart pushed himself off the chair, pacing toward the window, his pulse hammering through his skull. He could feel the walls closing in, the inevitable weight of what was coming. Sylus and Leila weren’t just coming for revenge. They were coming for each other.

And that was more dangerous than anything Dainhart had planned for. A knock at the door nearly made him reach for the gun at his hip. He inhaled deeply. Paranoia. It was sinking into his bones like a sickness.

“Enter!” he snapped.

The door creaked open, revealing a stiff-backed operative. “Everything is in place, sir. Perimeter’s secure, men are stationed at every entrance. No signs of movement.”

Dainhart nodded, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Sylus didn’t move in ways that could be anticipated. He didn’t strike when you expected him to. By the time you noticed, it was because his hands were already around your throat. His fingers curled into fists. He would not wait for that to happen.

“Double the men,” he ordered, his voice razor-sharp. “I don’t care if you have to pull them from the docks or the warehouses—no one gets through. No one.”

The operative hesitated. “Sir, the resources—”

“I don’t give a damn about resources.” Dainhart shot to his feet, shoving his chair back with a sharp screech. “Do it.”

The man stiffened before nodding and retreating. Dainhart inhaled deeply, trying to ground himself, but the unease never left. He had spent years building himself into the untouchable force of the underground. He dictated the game. He had never been the one running. Yet, here he was and Sylus was closing in.

Dainhart’s gaze swept over the men stationed below, their weapons at the ready, standing like an impenetrable wall of defense. For a brief moment, a flicker of relief settled in his chest—until a faint red dot crept up his torso, catching in his peripheral vision. His breath hitched. Shit.

Instinct took over. He dropped just as the glass behind him exploded, shards slicing through the air. His heart pounded as he pressed himself against the floor, ears ringing from the impact. Slowly, he lifted his gaze—his pulse spiked at the sight. A single, precise bullet hole marred the center of his portrait, right between the eyes.

With a swift, almost frantic movement, Dainhart's fingers found the hidden emergency button beneath his desk. He pressed it, the click echoing in the sudden, charged silence. The room plunged into darkness for a heartbeat, then lurid red lights flickered to life, casting an eerie glow across the space. A deafening wailing siren pierced the air, its shrill cry echoing through the base, a call to arms.

"They're here! Go go go!" Dainhart's men yelled, their voices laced with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. The once-orderly base erupted into chaos, a whirlwind of panicked movement and shouted orders.

Kieran chuckled darkly as he peered through the sniper’s scope, watching Dainhart scramble across the floor before bolting out of his office. "Motherfucker’s a coward!" he barked out, laughter spilling through the comms. His finger hovered over the trigger, itching to take another shot, but he knew better. He followed what Leila asked him to do, take a shot, miss it to scare the already-paranoid. Dainhart. They wanted Dainhart cornered, not dead. Not yet. Pressing a hand to his earpiece, Kieran grinned. "The rabbit has left his hole."

Dainhart’s breathing was uneven as he ran out, his pulse a wild drumbeat in his ears. He had been in high-stakes situations before, but never like this. Never where he felt like the hunted instead of the hunter. "With me," he barked, his voice slicing through the tension like a whip. "We’re heading to the south exit. Move!"

His men snapped into action, falling into formation around him, rifles raised and eyes scanning every shadow. Boots pounded against the marble floor as they hurried through the corridor, the flickering emergency lights casting distorted silhouettes along the walls.

Dainhart gritted his teeth. Sylus was toying with him. The sniper had been a warning, the power outage a second taunt. They wanted him running—wanted him cornered. Not happening. As they reached the stairwell, one of his men pressed a finger to his earpiece. "South exit is still clear, sir. We have a car ready."

Dainhart nodded sharply, motioning for them to keep moving. "Keep your eyes open. If you see so much as a shadow that looks wrong, shoot first." They descended quickly, the stairwell echoing with the sound of their movement. He could already see it in his mind—the black SUV waiting in the alley, the reinforced doors slamming shut behind him as they sped off. He just needed to get there.

As Dainhart reached the final steps of the stairwell, his eyes locked onto the black SUV parked in the alley, engine humming, ready for a quick escape. Relief was a fleeting thing—just as his boot hit the pavement, a violent boom shattered the night.

The explosion tore through the alleyway, a blinding eruption of fire and metal. The force sent Dainhart stumbling back, heat licking at his skin as shards of glass and twisted debris rained down. The deafening blast rang in his ears, drowning out the panicked shouts of his men. Dainhart’s breath came in ragged gasps, his heart slamming against his ribs. That wasn’t just a trap. It was a statement.

A low growl built in his throat as he turned away from the inferno, fists clenching. "We’re changing routes," he snarled. "Move. Now." But the moment they turned back toward the building, the radio on his belt crackled to life. A voice, smooth and edged with amusement, slithered through the static.

“Running already, Dainhart?” It was Sylus.

Dainhart’s blood ran cold. His grip on the radio tightened as he ground his teeth, fury eclipsing the lingering shock from the explosion. The bastard was playing with him. His men were already scrambling, weapons drawn, eyes darting to every rooftop and shadow. But it didn’t matter. Sylus had them exactly where he wanted them—trapped.

He forced his breath to steady before responding, his voice low and venomous. “You’ve made your move, Sylus. Don’t think I won’t return the favor.”

A dark chuckle crackled through the radio. “Oh, I’m counting on it.” Then, the line went dead.

Dainhart’s pulse pounded against his skull. He threw the transceiver to the ground, sending it to shatter at his feet. He didn’t have time to waste. “We’re going for the docks,” he snapped at his men. “Now.”

They moved fast, the scent of burning fuel and blood clinging to the air as they navigated through the alleyways. But the moment they stepped into the open street, something was off. Too quiet. Too empty. Then—click.

A metal clank beneath their feet. Dainhart barely had time to register the tripwire before the streetlights above flickered—then cut to black. A second explosion erupted, this time from behind them. Shrapnel and dust filled the air as one of his men was thrown to the ground, motionless. The others scrambled for cover, but before they could react, a new sound cut through the chaos. Footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried.

He is no longer the hunter. He is the hunted. Then—he heard it.

A soft, haunting hum, threading through the smoke-filled air like a whisper of death. His blood ran cold. He knew that sound.

The Blackthorn Siren.

Dainhart’s fingers tightened around his gun, his heart hammering. He turned sharply, scanning the shadows, but she wasn’t there. Not yet. But she was near—too near.

The hum continued, low and unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world. His mouth went dry. He had once mocked the rumors, dismissed them as mere theatrics. But now, standing alone in the wreckage of his own undoing, with nothing but that eerie melody wrapping around him like a noose, he understood. This was no performance. This was a death knell, a shift in the darkness, a flicker of movement just beyond the glow of the flames. Then, she stepped into the light. Leila.

She was calm, poised—untouched by the chaos surrounding them. Her dark eyes glowed with something quiet, something lethal. Dainhart swallowed hard and raised his gun. “Where’s Sylus?” He hated the way his voice came out.

Leila tilted her head, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across her lips after hearing the tremble in Dainhart's voice. “Busy.”

The hum was gone now. She didn’t need it anymore. The song had already done its job. Dainhart exhaled through his nose, planting his feet. “You think I’m just going to let you waltz in here and finish the job?”

Her smirk deepened. “No,” she murmured, taking another step forward. “But I do love watching men realize they’ve already lost.”

Dainhart fired. The bullet never met its mark. Leila was already gone.

Dainhart's grip on his gun tightened, as he scanned the chaotic scene, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, searching for any sign of Leila. He knew better than to waste ammunition on blind shots. "Come out, you bitch!" he snarled, his voice laced with a mixture of fear and rage.

A sudden, piercing scream ripped through the air, startling Dainhart and his men. They spun around, their weapons raised, to see Leila, a figure of deadly grace, withdrawing her dagger from the shoulder of one of his men. The man crumpled to the ground, his scream echoing through the base.

The moment another body hit the ground with a sickening thud, the remaining men faltered. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their grips on their weapons trembling. Then, one by one, survival instinct kicked in. A gun clattered to the ground as the first man bolted. Another followed, then another. And just like that, Dainhart found himself alone.

His heart pounded as he turned to see his men disappearing into the shadows, their loyalty crumbling under the weight of fear. He couldn't blame them. He wanted to run too. So he did.

Leila saw him move, her focus snapping away from the retreating cowards. Her eyes locked onto Dainhart’s back as he sprinted toward the docks. Without hesitation, she launched after him. Her boots barely made a sound as she closed the distance.

Then—movement. Five men emerged from the wreckage, stepping directly into her path. No hesitation. Just cold, merciless grins as they twirled blades in their hands. Leila slowed, exhaling through her nose.

They knew better than to waste bullets on someone who could weave through gunfire. Up close, with nowhere to vanish, they thought they had a chance. She rolled her shoulders, adjusting her grip on her dagger.

"Really?" she muttered, lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

One of them lunged. Leila's response was a blur of motion. The dagger, a silver streak against the backdrop of moonlight, found its mark with chilling precision. The attacker stumbled, a choked gasp escaping his lips before he crumpled to the floor. The others, momentarily stunned, reacted. Steel flashed, a symphony of deadly intent. Leila danced, a whirlwind of motion, her dagger a venomous serpent, striking and retreating, a blur of deadly grace.

One by one, they fell, their surprised cries cut short by the sharp sting of steel. Leila, a whirlwind of motion, fought with a brutal efficiency, her movements honed by years of brutal combat, her every move a calculated strike.

The air grew thick with the metallic tang of blood and the heavy scent of fear. Leila, surrounded by the fallen, stood amidst the carnage, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light. The fight was far from over, but she had made her point.

She was not to be underestimated. Without pausing to savor her victory, Leila resumed her pursuit, her focus locked on Dainhart's trail. It was a swift chase; she quickly closed the distance, finding him at the docks where his boats rocked idly on the waves. The air was thick with the scent of salt and damp wood, the rhythmic creaking of the vessels a stark contrast to the violence she had just left behind.

Dainhart was just steps away from the boat when a sharp whistle cut through the air.

Pain. A choked snarl ripped from his throat as the blade sank deep into his hip. His legs faltered, his balance snapping like a severed wire as he stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the dock’s wooden planks. The world spun for a fraction of a second, the salt in the air turning acrid with the scent of his own blood.

“Shit—” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hand snapping to the knife embedded in his flesh.

He forced his head up, and there she was. Leila's form illuminated by the flickering dock lights. The Blackthorn Siren—silent, deadly, but utterly human. Dainhart yanked the knife from his hip with a ragged breath, blood trickling down his leg as he forced himself to stand. He kept the knife clutched in his hand, the metal a cold comfort. He didn't need it. Not yet. He still had his gun.

Or so he thought.

Leila moved before he could even raise his arm. A blur of motion, and then—crack! A sharp kick slammed into his wrist, sending his gun skidding across the dock the down to vanish in the water. A second kick followed, aimed at his ribs, but Dainhart twisted, absorbing the impact before lunging at her. She stepped back, fluid as water, avoiding his grasp but he was fast too.

With a desperate snarl, he closed the distance, throwing a wild punch toward her face. She ducked—predictable—but he anticipated it, bringing his knee up. It connected with her torso, forcing a breath from her lips as she staggered back.

Dainhart didn’t let up. He lunged again, and this time, he caught her. His weight slammed into her, and she hit the dock hard. Her vision spun, and before she could react, Dainhart was on top of her, his knee digging into her side.

Leila’s fingers scrambled for a weapon, anything—but Dainhart already had one. Her weapon. Her own throwing knife, still slick with his blood, was now clenched in his fist, its tip just centimeters from her eye.

She grit her teeth, both hands straining against his as she fought to keep the blade away. Her arms trembled with effort, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she pushed back with everything she had. But Dainhart was bigger, heavier, and his strength was fueled by desperation. The blade inched closer.

"You're not winning this," he growled through clenched teeth, pressing down harder. Her arms burned, her weak shoulder screaming under the pressure. A single centimeter was all that stood between her and death.

Then—a powerful force yanked Dainhart back, out of her reach. One second, he was above her, forcing the knife toward her skull, and the next, he was yanked backward with a vicious force that sent him crashing onto the dock.

Leila gasped, scrambling up just in time to see him struggle against the iron grip wrapped around his collar.

He stood there facing his old partner, his expression eerily calm. "Who do you think you are, laying a hand on her?" Sylus murmured, his voice a low, dangerous question.

Then, without warning, he slammed his fist into Dainhart’s face. Dainhart's head snapped to the side with the force of the punch, blood spraying from his lip as he staggered. But Sylus didn’t let him fall. His grip on Dainhart’s collar tightened, keeping him upright like a marionette in his hands.

Leila watched, chest heaving, as Sylus pulled Dainhart. The amusement in Sylus’ eyes was gone now, replaced by something colder, something razor-sharp. "You’ve been running for a while," Sylus said, voice quiet but dripping with menace. "Did you really think it would last?"

Dainhart, still dazed from the blow, let out a ragged breath. "Go to hell," he spat, his bloodied lips curling into a sneer.

Sylus smirked. "Oh, I’ll send you there first."

Then, with brutal efficiency, Sylus drove a kick into Dainhart’s gut. The force ripped the air from his lungs, his body curling in on itself as a choked sound of agony left his throat. Sylus finally let him drop, and Dainhart crumpled onto the dock, coughing violently, his hands trembling as he tried to push himself up.

Leila rose to her feet, wiping sweat from her brow as she stepped beside Sylus. Her gaze dropped to Dainhart’s sprawled form, watching as his breaths came in uneven, ragged pulls. He was done. He had fought, he had run—but there was nowhere left to go.

Dainhart let out a bitter, wheezing laugh, his fingers curling weakly against the wooden planks. "Took you two long enough," he rasped.

Sylus tilted his head, looking almost thoughtful. "We wanted to give you a show."

Leila exhaled, rolling her shoulder to shake off the lingering ache. "And you put up quite the performance," she added, voice smooth but laced with quiet steel. "Too bad the ending was already decided."

Before Dainhart could respond, Sylus’s shoe connected with his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone echoing across the docks. Dainhart screamed, a sound that was cut short as Leila’s dagger flashed across the air sticking the sharp edge on the wood beside his cheek, slicing a shallow cut on the skin. He flinched, his eyes widening in pain and surprise.

Dainhart, his body screaming in protest, tried to defend himself, but he was too slow, too weak. He was a broken toy, a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He spat a mouthful of blood at Sylus’s feet, a twisted grin curling his split lips. "You’ve gone soft," he wheezed, his voice laced with bitter mockery. "All this… sentimentality. For Leila. A woman. The weaker link!"

Sylus’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with something lethal. His grip on the gun was steady, but his fury was anything but. Insult him all you want—he didn’t care. But Leila? "Say her name again. I dare you."

Dainhart’s laughter was a wet, gurgling sound. "You were a blade, Sylus. Sharp, merciless. Now you’re dull—rusted—for a woman who was meant to be a corpse."

Sylus clocked his gun, the cold steel a stark contrast to the warmth of the setting sun. "A weapon without an edge dulls," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "She keeps me sharp."

There was no fear in Dainhart’s face anymore—just the weight of inevitability. He had played his part. The game was over. A single gunshot echoed across the docks. Dainhart fell silent. Sylus withdrew his foot from Dainhart's chest, then nudged his shoulder with a casual kick, sending the body rolling off the dock and into the water with a dull splash. He then reached into his pocket, retrieving the handheld transceiver he'd taken from one of Dainhart's men.

"I know someone on the other end can hear me," he spoke into the device, his voice low and steady. "Your boss is dead. Cancel the bounty he placed on the Blackthorn Siren, unless you want this entire location reduced to rubble with all of you inside, at the push of a button." A calculated bluff.

Silence crackled through the transceiver then followed by a burst of static. A voice, flat and devoid of emotion, replied, "Understood."

Leila glanced up at Sylus, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he pressed a tender kiss to her hair.

---

The rumble of the speedboat’s engine faded as Leila slowed, guiding it toward the dock. The salty breeze tangled in her hair, and she couldn’t help the grin spreading across her face as she glanced at Sylus, who sat blindfolded beside her. “What are you up to this time?” His voice was steady, but she caught the subtle impatience beneath it.

Leila chuckled. “Patience.” She secured the boat, then took his hand, leading him onto the dock. His grip was strong, trusting, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself savor the way their fingers fit together.

“I figured you deserved something after that championship match two weeks ago,” she said as she guided him across the soft wooden planks. “Since you gave me your champion’s ring, I thought it was only fair to give you something in return.”

Sylus tilted his head slightly. “You’re not usually the type for sentimental gestures.”

“True,” she admitted with a smirk. “But I’ve been wanting this for years. Never had a good enough reason to get it… until now.”

She stopped walking, standing just at the edge of the pristine beach. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, waves lapping at the shore with a rhythmic hush. The golden hues of the sunset bathed the landscape in warmth, setting the white sand and palm trees aglow.

Leila reached up and untied the silk necktie that served as his blindfold, slipping it from his face. "Tada!" Leila exclaimed with her arms up in the air.

Sylus blinked as the sudden brightness hit him. His sharp gaze took a moment to adjust, then slowly widened as he took in the sight before him. A private island. Their own paradise.

His lips parted slightly. “You—”

“Do you like it?” Leila asked, watching him carefully. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, a rare, genuine smile curved his lips.

“You bought an island?”

She shrugged. “Figured you could use a place to disappear when the world gets too loud.”

Sylus exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You are completely unpredictable.”

She smirked. “And you love it.”

His gaze softened as he stepped closer. “I do.” Then, with the crashing waves as their only witness, he pulled her into his arms.

Leila felt the warmth of Sylus’ embrace, the weight of his hands at her waist—possessive, certain. For a moment, they simply stood there, the ocean whispering against the shore, the last traces of sunlight painting the horizon in molten gold. Then, with a playful smirk, she pulled away, tilting her chin toward the path leading inland.

“There’s more,” she said, stepping back onto the wooden walkway lined with flickering torches. Palm trees swayed lazily overhead, casting shifting shadows across the smooth stone path. The scent of salt and hibiscus lingered in the air, mingling with something richer.

As they ascended the steps, Sylus took in the architectural marvel before him. The estate was a seamless blend of luxury and restraint—white stucco walls with sleek, dark wood accents, massive glass doors that reflected the fiery hues of the setting sun. The mansion sprawled effortlessly across the land, its open design allowing the sea breeze to flow freely through its halls. The faint aroma of cedar and sandalwood drifting from the open archways of a mansion that seemed almost sculpted from the landscape itself.

Leila took out the keys from her pocket then slid the doors open. “Welcome home,” she murmured, leading him inside.

The interior was a study in contrasts—modern minimalism meeting untamed nature. The living space was vast, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the infinity pool. Soft, sun-bleached linen draped over low-profile furniture, and a statement fireplace of polished black stone stood at the center of the open-concept room. Light fixtures hung like cascading vines, their warm glow casting gentle illumination against textured walls.

Sylus let out a low hum of approval, running his fingers along the smooth marble of the bar. His sharp gaze flickered toward her, unreadable, though she caught the slight upward tilt of his lips. “You did all this for me?”

Leila folded her arms, leaning against the bar. “I did it for us,” she corrected. “Figured we deserved a place that’s ours. No watching eyes. No unfinished business lurking around every corner.”

Sylus exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I gave you a ring. You bought me an island.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “Kind of makes me look bad, doesn’t it?”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “You spoil me almost every day, Sylus.” She reached up, adjusting the collar of his shirt like she was smoothing out something invisible. “Now it’s my turn.”

A slow, rare smile tugged at his lips as he studied her, the weight of his gaze sending warmth curling in her chest.

“You realize what you’ve done, don’t you?” His voice dipped lower, edged with something unreadable.

Leila arched a brow. “Enlighten me.”

“You’ve made it impossible for me to ever let you go.”

Her smirk softened into something dangerously close to tender. “Good.”

Sylus let his fingers trail over Leila’s wrist as they walked inside, their steps slow, unhurried—like for once, neither of them had to be anywhere but here. The mansion was sleek yet inviting, a perfect blend of indulgence and comfort. The open-concept space held modern furniture softened by warm lighting, and beyond the living area, a grand staircase led to the second floor.

Leila guided him through the hall, past the airy living room, and onto a sprawling terrace that overlooked the infinity pool. A plush outdoor lounge was set beneath a wooden pergola draped with sheer, billowing curtains, the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the sleek stone. A tray of wine and fruit was already set out, like she’d planned every detail down to the very moment.

Sylus exhaled, his hand tightening around hers. “You really thought of everything.”

She smirked, nudging him toward the couch. “I didn’t want to half-ass it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime surprise, after all.”

He sat down, eyes never leaving her as she settled beside him, one leg curled beneath her. “I still can’t believe you did this.”

Leila tilted her head, brushing a few strands of his hair. “I told you, you deserve something that’s just yours. A place where you don’t have to be Sylus of Onychinus, just… Sylus.”

His gaze softened. “And what about you?”

She shrugged. “I think I deserve to see you like this. Unburdened. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just reached for her hand, tracing slow, deliberate circles against her palm. “You know,” he murmured, “I used to think I didn’t need a place to escape to. That I could carve out my own peace in the chaos.” He exhaled, gaze dropping briefly to their intertwined fingers. “I could adapt to any location and call it home as long as I'm willing. But now I have a condition, if you're not there, then I'm not interested.”

Leila blinked, her breath catching slightly at the unexpected confession.

He smirked at her stunned silence. “What? Did I finally find a way to shut you up?”

She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. “That was unfairly smooth.”

“I meant it, though.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “All of it.”

Leila let the moment settle, let the warmth of his words wrap around her like the evening breeze. Then, with a smirk, she leaned in, resting her forehead against his. “I love you, you know.”

Sylus inhaled slowly, his hand cupping the back of her neck. “I know, my beloved.” His voice was quieter now, lower. “I love you. There’s no universe where I’m not yours.” He kissed her then, slow and deep, with the kind of certainty that felt like an unspoken vow.

The waves carried their steady rhythm against the shore, a constant, soothing presence beneath the quiet hum of the night. For once, there were no threats lurking in the shadows, no unfinished business waiting to be settled—just the glow of the sunset dancing across their skin. A bond forged in chaos, tempered in blood, and now, resting in peace. Wrapped in each other’s warmth, in the gentle hush of the sea, they let themselves sink into their quiet promise of forever.

[hoe4hotchner]

It's good to be king [A.H]

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐!𝙰𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟷.𝟷𝚔 𝙲𝚆: 𝟷𝟾+, 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕, 𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕.

𝙰/𝙽: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢. 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔!!!! 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗.

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            The grand throne room was a shadowy expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, the heavy scent of burning wood mixing with the deep, earthy aroma of the kingdom outside. King Aaron sat on the massive throne, a figure as dark and imposing as the room itself. His broad frame was draped in luxurious black and crimson robes, edged with gold that glimmered faintly in the dim light, while a heavy crown rested upon his head like a symbol of his unyielding authority. His eyes, sharp and cold as ice, surveyed the room with a calculated hunger.

         𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.

            Outside the palace walls, the kingdom cowered beneath his iron grip. King Aaron had taken the throne through cunning, strength, and fear, his reputation as a ruthless and merciless ruler growing with each passing day. Whispers of rebellion had long since died out, smothered by his swift and brutal justice. His subjects knew better than to defy him, for to do so was to invite destruction into their homes.

            He relished it. Power flowed through his veins, thick and intoxicating, and he wielded it with precision. Every decision, every law, every order was an extension of his will, and no one - no one - dared to challenge him. He was the uncontested force that ruled this land, and the world bent to his desires.

         𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

            You stood at the far end of the throne room, a figure both regal and fragile, draped in silks that did little to mask the tension in your posture. You had not come to him willingly. You had been forced into marriage with him, a pawn in a game of power, a prize that the king had claimed simply because he could. But that was of little consequence to him.

            You were just another thing in his vast collection. His queen, sure, but in his eyes, more a possession than an equal. He could feel your resistance, the quiet, simmering resentment that lingered behind your eyes. You were trapped, and he savored that knowledge - there was no escape from him, no way out of the cage he had crafted for you.

            He rose from the throne, the sound of his boots echoing in the vast hall as he approached you, his dark presence filling the space like a looming storm. His gaze, intense and unreadable, flickered over you, he tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

            “You’re tense,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, each word laced with a chilling undercurrent of amusement. “It doesn’t suit you.”

            You didn’t respond, your eyes darting to the stone floor, it made him chuckle softly. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that was almost tender, but the weight behind it was unmistakable - he owned you, body and soul. His thumb lingered at your jaw, tilting your chin up so that you were forced to meet his gaze.

            “You should learn to accept this,” he murmured, his tone low and commanding. “It’ll be easier that way.”

            There was no cruelty in his words, only a quiet certainty, as though the idea of resistance was laughable to him. And why wouldn’t it be? No one resisted Aaron Hotchner. He got what he wanted. Always.

            He moved past you, his cape sweeping the ground as he walked toward the massive window overlooking the kingdom. Beyond the glass, the land stretched out, vast and unyielding under his rule, the distant villages mere shadows on the horizon. His kingdom. His world.

            “It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” he said, his back still to you. “All of this… mine.”

            There was a satisfaction in his voice, an edge of arrogance that sent a shiver down your spine. He turned his head slightly, his eyes cutting back to you, watching for your reaction.

            “You’ll come to see it as I do,” he continued, his tone soft but commanding. “In time.”

 ��          He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. Aaron wasn’t a king who sought approval or validation. He was a man who seized control, who took what he wanted, whether it was a kingdom or a queen. The thought of your resentment didn’t trouble him—it amused him. Because he knew, deep down, that it didn’t matter. No matter how much you resisted, no matter how much you longed to escape, there was no freedom from him.

            He could feel the weight of his power pressing down on you, and he reveled in it. The way you shrank under his gaze, the way your breathing quickened whenever he drew near. Fear was a powerful thing, and he wielded it expertly, a tool as sharp and deadly as any blade in his collection.

            But there was something else, too. Something that flickered in the shadows of his mind, an unfamiliar sensation that gnawed at him from time to time when he watched you. It wasn’t tenderness, not exactly - he was incapable of that. But it was something close, something darker. Possessive. Obsessive even.

          𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕.

            He turned away from the window and walked back toward you, his steps slow, deliberate. His fingers trailed over your arm as he passed, a touch meant to remind you of his presence, his control. He circled you like a predator stalking its prey, his eyes never leaving you.

            “I’ve given you everything,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr. “Power, wealth, a crown. And yet… you still resist me.”

            You swallowed, the tension in your throat noticeable, but you didn’t speak. He smirked, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear.

            “You’ll learn, eventually,” he whispered, his voice like velvet and poison at the same time. “Everyone does.”

            There was no warmth in his words, no promise of affection. Only the cold, determined certainty of a king who ruled with an iron fist. He straightened, pulling away from you, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze lifted, allowing you a brief, fragile moment of respite.

            He returned to his throne, sitting once more in the seat of power, the dark crown upon his brow casting shadows across his face. His eyes, sharp and dangerous, gleamed in the torchlight as he watched you, a king studying his possession.

            Aaron Hotchner was not a man to be crossed. He was not a man to be loved. He was a force, a king who reveled in power, who took what he wanted without question or hesitation. And you, like everything else in his kingdom, were his to command, his to control.

           𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.

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[knight-of-flowerss]

Was reading @aeralux ‘s new fic (haven’t even finished yet but yall GOTS to read it 😫🫵)

Anyways, I was reading it and got to the point where they kiss and she said ‘Cregan kissed like he played hockey–with skill and passion.’ And idk why but it made me think of how both Cregan and Jace would be on the ice.

Like Cregan is VERY skilled. He’s BEEN playing ice hockey since he was like BORN. But like, is it really a surprise? Anyways, I think a lot of people see him and go ‘oh my god look at that monster of a man’ and they all just assume he’s just some brute on the ice when in reality he’s just the captain trynna get by with some little gremlins who are on his team (Jacaerys).

Like, don’t get me wrong, he intimidates everyone on the ice but in reality he’s BY. THE. BOOK. Making everyone do laps when they fuck up, miss a shot, misbehave, etc. even if it has nothing to do with hockey, you get his teammates are getting punished for their actions.

Failed your test? Run laps. Skipped class? You’re carrying everyone’s sticks. And let’s say someone did something worse like cheated on their girl, suit up. You’re going in goal and we’re all practicing our aim on you. (Bonus point of pain if they’re not a goalie in he first place)

So, he is by the book, maybe not so much with the last one but hey. Cregan’s not gonna let that one slide hunny.

But just because he keeps everyone in line and is serious about the sport doesn’t mean he hasn’t had his spats on the ice.

One person who CAN get under his skin is Aemond Targaryen. It was kind of surprising to everyone but maybe not so much. They’re both stoic and serious, believing in going by the rules and the book instead of acting rash and stupid. But they clash on the ice.

They clash hard.

It’s Aemond’s cockiness. That’s what infuriates him. He has such passion for this sport, he’s humble and understands his abilities and who he can beat easily and who would be a struggle which leads him to be the one to pick everyone’s roles and formations.

And Aemond? Aemond is smart but a cocky bastard. Never ever has Cregan seen him be even the littlest bit humble.

So that’s why after almost every match that they come face to face on in the ice, Aemond wears a black eye and Cregan a busted lip.

And I know you might be thinking, ‘Cregan would win every time though, I mean, look at the size of him compared to Aemond!’ Oh hunny, agility is a factor.

While Cregan is huge and burly, Aemond is lean and agile. So while Cregan has strength, Aemond is like a fucking snake, not much difference from his own personality.

There’s been a few times when Cregan’s pummelled Aemond’s face into the ice and a few times when Aemond has moved fast enough for Cregan to face plant on the cold.

But even when Cregan ‘loses’ to Aemond, he has his best friend in clutch.

As Aemond skates away, Jacaerys almost always shoulder checks him as hard as he can, sending Aemond on his ass.

Jacaerys. The exact little goblin Cregan has to keep an eye on.

Standing at 5’6, Jace lives up to the chihuahua stereotype.

While Cregan is intimidating, his face boxy and nose looking like it’s been rearranged a hundred times, Jacaerys is seen as a pampered little puppy. Like those dachshunds you see on instagram with their little knitted sweaters on with little bows at their ears.

Others look at Cregan and see him as the threat but fail to look behind him at the ankle biter which is Jacaerys.

‘The Prince of Dragonstone University’ they call him. He looked regal, a beautiful, beautiful face, gorgeous curled black locks, a lean body with a hint of a muscular build. He even spoke like a prince. He was always polite, helping anyone and everyone, but as soon as he gets on that ice.

Oof.

I hope you’re fast enough to skate away.

While he hates Aemond, Aegon holds the hatred in his heart with a death grip.

Both are ‘short kings’ that have a little gremlin mode whenever they get on the ice. They’re like those tiny little dogs who look so adorable but when you get close, they yap and bark so much their bodies literally shake.

But I swear as soon as he’s off the ice, he bats his eyelashes and looks at everyone with his baby doll bambi eyes and everyone coos over him, forgetting about his literal iPad kid rage on the ice.

I know this isn’t that good but hey. Shush. 🫵

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Loving Memory: A Retelling of East of the Sun, West of the Moon

The woman striding across the ballroom floor takes my breath away. She is perfection in human form--regal and statuesque, with hair like a raven's wing, skin like a fresh fall of snow, and ice-blue eyes that can captivate a man's heart.

And the gown! It makes her beauty seem almost divine. It shimmers and swirls like rivers of gold, making the icy-white marble of the floor and walls glow with the light of the sun that has not shone here for a month of days. I nearly fall to my knees, but I am a prince--soon to be a king--so I merely bow over her hand, lead her into the dance, and thank heaven for our impending marriage. Jorunn knows I do not love her, but at moments like these, I have no doubt that I shall.

We whirl through the dancers, the lords and ladies assembled for our upcoming wedding, all of them flawless in form, wearing suits and gowns of impossible beauty--a rainbow of velvets and silks, gold and jewels. My betrothed outshines them all. I feel clumsy and common in comparison, and marvel yet again that I am deemed worthy to join--and soon rule--this court.

When the dance ends, I bring Jorunn to the refreshment table, where we take glasses of sweet blue punch.

"You should drink your tonic, darling," Jorunn says, removing a small silver flask from a pocket in her skirt.

"Must I?" I ask, glancing to the watching crowd. I usually take the tonic before bed, in private. I don't relish my future subjects knowing that their king is an invalid.

"You must have your strength tonight," she says, pouring what looks like a double dose into my punch. The icy blue liquid turns a murky amber.

I down the drink in one gulp, cringing as the bitter aroma fills my head. I swear I can feel it coursing through my limbs. They feel heavier than they had a moment before. My head feels murkier.

It passes in a moment, and once again I'm overjoyed to be here, with her, in this impossibly beautiful realm.

I kiss Jorunn's cheek and thank her for her watchfulness. I feel as if I could dance all night.

The music starts up--an enticing melody of flutes and strings--but just as I pull Jorunn into the dance, a commotion starts at the other edge of the crowd. The music stops, and the crowd parts to reveal...something...crossing the floor. Some kind of animal has entered the ballroom--smaller than a bear, larger than a dog, with patches of fur in every shade of white and black and brown.

As it comes nearer, I see that it walks upright on two legs--two human legs, with two small, white human hands poking out from the folds of the fur.

"What is it?" I ask Jorunn. "Who let it into the ballroom?"

"I did," Jorunn says. "She is my invited guest."

I bow my head in embarrassment. "I'm...certain she's quite charming."

Jorunn pushes my shoulder, gently urging me toward the girl. "Dance with her, Eirik."

"I?" I yelp. How could a prince--a future king--demean himself by dancing with such a creature before all his subjects. "Why?"

Jorunn tilts her head toward me and murmurs, "Because I keep my promises. This girl is the one who gifted me this dress, and in return all she asked was a dance with you."

"A strange boon to demand from a woman about to be married," I say. Stranger still that Jorunn granted it.

"We aren't wed yet," Jorunn says playfully. "I can't keep you all to myself, no matter how much I may wish to." She urges me toward the girl. "Go on, my love. It's not too much to ask."

Despite myself, I feel a pang of pity for the creature. She gave away a dress fit for a queen and had to appear in this ballroom in a bundle of furs. Such unselfishness merits a few minutes of kindness. "For your sake, my dear," I say, bowing over Jorunn's hand. "And for hers. I assure you I'll take no joy in it."

Jorunn smiles. "I've no worries on that account."

#

Fighting a feeling of revulsion, I approach the girl, bow, and offer my hand. "Might I have this dance?"

The girl--she barely reaches my shoulder--looks up at me. A white face appears from within the furry hood--a pointed chin, high cheekbones, a determined mouth, and defiant green eyes.

The woman faintly smiles, and my heart stops. In this palace of perfection, she seems so real. Not ice and gold and glamour, but sun and earth and, oh, a million ordinary, beautiful things I haven't thought about since I came to this place.

"Who are you?" I gasp, the words slipping out before I can think.

Her eyes go wide--confused and dismayed. She throws back her hood, revealing yellow hair. Not golden or raven or mahogany or any of the awe-inspiring shades that make the people of this realm so beautiful. Just yellow. But it is braided into a crown about her head that suits her better than any jewels.

Those green eyes meet mine. "You know me," she says.

I stare into those eyes, which seem to hold something I haven't known I've lost. If I know this girl, I can't remember her. My past before this palace is a murky haze--standing in such brightness makes everything else seem dim.

I shake away the threads of memory before I go mad from trying to grasp them. "Forgive me," I say, "but if we've met, I can't recall."

I signal to the musicians to start the music, and I sweep the fur-clad maiden into a waltz. She is silent as we dance, gazing up at my face as if trying to memorize me.

I say, trying to be kind, "That's a wondrous cloak you wear. I've never seen its like."

It's not a lie. It seems to be made of the skin of every beast there ever was. I see white fur, black fur, brown fur, some solid, some speckled, some striped, all stitched together in a haphazard pattern, as though someone was desperate to make use of every scrap.

The woman looks down. "It is all I had left to me, after..."

I kindly wait for her to speak.

"I've had a great loss," she finally says. "I have searched ever since to find you."

"If there is anything I can do for you," I say, "you need only ask. You have done a great service for my bride."

The girl stumbles.

I catch her and help her upright. "I am sorry. Did I trip you?"

"No," she gasps, grasping her side. As we slide into the dance again, she looks up into my face. "Do you truly not know me?"

"I wish I could say otherwise," I say, and I mean it with all my heart. There is something about this girl that makes the world seem larger than I realized. "Perhaps if you told me your name?"

She shakes her head. "I can't. Even if I could, what good would my name do if you've already forgotten my face?" She bows her head with a strangled noise, and I see tears streaming from her eyes. "I spent so many months imagining this moment. I hoped you'd be overjoyed to see me. I was afraid you'd hate me. But I never imagined...this. That I meant so little to you that you've already forgotten me."

"There is much I have forgotten," I say, before I can remember that none are supposed to know of my affliction. "This place, it...dazzles the mind. There are many things I wish I could recall about the world beyond this realm. If I knew you there, I am certain you were well worth remembering, and it pains me to say that I do not. But whatever we had before, I am glad to know you now."

She wipes her face against the fur on her sleeve. When she looks up at me, her eyes hold something like hope. "Do you think--"

The music slows to a stop, and before we can finish the step, Jorunn steps between me and the girl. She places one hand on the girl's chest and pushes her away. "You've had your dance," she says. "Now trouble us no more."

The girl steps away, but she takes a hesitant glance back at me.

I smile gently. "Thank you for the dance. I will remember your face next time."

Those words put a determination into her gaze that seems instantly to dry her tears. "I will see you again," she says and disappears into the crowd.

For the rest of the night, I dance with the queen of the realm at the top of the world, a peerless beauty with the radiance of the sun who lays a kingdom at my feet. But my thoughts are on a girl with green eyes, wearing a coat made of all kinds of fur.

#

At the next night's ball, Jorunn wears a sleek gown that gleams with the silver radiance of the moon. It makes her seem ethereal, a woman of wondrous mystery. But she is not the mystery I find myself pondering.

"You seem distracted tonight, Eirik," she says. "Have you taken your tonic?"

Upon my denial, she pours a dose into my punch glass. After one swallow, my racing thoughts begin to slow. What does that strange girl matter? I can be happy here, with this incomparable queen at my side.

A commotion begins on the other side of the ballroom, and the many-furred girl appears among the crowd. I take a hasty swallow of the tonic, but set down the punch glass while it's still half-full.

I look to Jorunn, whose eyes are narrowed toward the girl. "Another dance in exchange for tonight's dress?" I ask.

"Two," Jorunn says. "She drives a hard bargain."

I squeeze her hand. I know my duty with this marriage. She has no need to be jealous. "I will do what I must," I say. "We must keep our promises."

I smile as I approach the girl. She smiles in response, and it makes her more radiant than Jorunn's dress. Again, I am struck by how real she is, practical and solid in a world of wisps and dreams.

"You returned," I say, as I whisk her into a waltz.

"I said I would," she replies.

"I'm glad to know you keep your promises."

She winces, and tears spring to her eyes.

"Forgive me," I say. "I don't wish to cause pain."

"No," she says, shaking her head and wiping her tears into a furred sleeve. "It is no more than I deserve."

"You have broken promises?" It seems cruel to ask, but I think she might welcome the question. It could shed some light on the past that she wants me to remember.

"Only one," she says. "But it destroyed everything."

I remember what she said about her cloak last night. It was all that was left to me. I have suffered a great loss.

"We all break promises sometimes," I say, trying to soothe her.

"Not like mine," she insists. "I did the one thing I was asked not to do. I betrayed the man I loved, and now he is lost to me."

"And he is why you have sought me out? You think I can convince him to forgive you?"

She looks into my face for a long, long moment, step after step, turn after turn. "I don't think," she says at last, "that he knows there is anything to forgive. And that's the worst thing of all."

How can this man be lost to her if he doesn't know she betrayed him? Has she run from her failure, rather than face disgrace?

I know well the temptation to hide from dishonor. Don't I hide my own affliction? This girl has no kingdom to run, but she still has pride to protect.

"Tell him," I say.

Tears flow freely down her cheeks. "I can't."

"I can help you."

"You can't!" she says, dropping my hand. She buries her face in her sleeve. "I don't know why I came."

I place a hand on her shoulder, and fight the strangest urge to turn it into an embrace. "Forgive me," I say. "You come to me for help, and I only cause you pain."

She wipes her face and swallows down a sob. "It's not your fault," she says. "Here I am, wasting our dance by crying."

The song fades to a close. "I still owe you another." I find myself panicked at the thought she won't take it.

"You do," she says, with a wet little laugh. My heart leaps at the sound of it. "Will you give me a chance to compose myself?"

"Take all the time you need," I say, leading her to a seat by a towering window that looks out upon the vast snow plains and a gorgeous spectacle of northern lights. She sits in the soft wing-backed chair and looks out the window, while I stand behind her leaning over the headrest. Despite knowing Jorunn for months, I have yet to have a moment with her that feels this...comfortable.

In the blue-black night, ribbons of violet, blue and green dance and flicker across the sky. The girl snuggles into her robe and gazes upon them with wonder.

"Have you ever seen such lights?" I ask. No matter how many times I see them, they never lose their appeal.

"Many times," she says. "Perhaps not quite this beautiful. Though they are lovely when seen from outside." She lays her head contentedly on her arm rest, using her furs as a pillow.

Her phrasing surprises me. "Do you often travel at night?"

"Night after night after night," she says. "Day after day after day. I never stopped. I climbed mountains, crossed rivers, rode the backs of all four winds."

"To find me," I say. "To find the man you love."

She startled and sits up, looking me straight in the eye. "Yes," she breathes, quivering with excitement.

"I wish I knew how to help you," I say. "You must love him very much."

Her shoulders sink. She sighs. "More than you may ever know."

"I only pray my wife and I can know such love."

She examines me closely. "You mean the princess. Do you mean to say you don't love her?"

It seems improper to speak of such things, and yet I find myself able to tell this girl things I couldn't tell anyone else. Why should I speak less than the truth? "Ours is a political match," I say. "I find her beautiful. I respect her strength. I appreciate her care for me. Love can come with time."

"What would she need to do to make you love her? What would you want in a wife?"

Someone who can come into a ballroom clad in furs and not feel shame. Someone who knows how to laugh and cry. Someone who loves to watch the northern lights. Someone who travels night and day to apologize to a man she betrayed.

In the end, I choose the diplomatic answer. "I don't know that I can ask for more than what I already have."

#

The girl is quieter during our second dance, carefully content. Her tears are stored away and she will not risk letting them out again.

Now that I'm not distracted by the mystery of her identity, or my lack of memory, or her sorrow over her lost love, I am able to focus on the dance itself, and I find that she is a marvelous dancer. Not so supernaturally graceful as Jorunn, but surprisingly easy to dance with, especially considering that she is wrapped in furs. The woman follows at my every touch, stepping smoothly through turns, patiently waiting if I stumble. I don't stumble often. My limbs feel lighter tonight, my head clearer--strange, given that I've had only half a dose of tonic.

"How did you come to have such wondrous dresses," I ask, "when you have only furs to wear yourself?" The question that had been easy to dismiss last night now seems impossible to ignore.

"You meet lots of strange people when you travel the world," she says with a smile. "They were gifts from some of the most marvelous old women I've ever met. Of course, I've had no occasion to wear them."

"A royal ball is not reason enough?"

"Not if I can't get inside. I'd rather have the dance than the dress."

A dance with me, worth more than a gown of celestial wonders? All for the chance I could help her reconcile with her lost love?

"I am sorry to have been such a disappointment."

"You're not that," she insists. "It's been wonderful just to see you."

"Worth a trip around the world and two wondrous dresses?"

"Not quite," she admits with a smile. "But enough for now. There's still time."

The music slows and falls silent. I bow her out of the dance. "Not for us, I'm afraid. I can give you no more dances."

"Tomorrow, then," she says, smiling over her shoulder as she disappears into the crowd.

Something about her glance--the twist of her hair, the angle of her head--sparks what might be a memory in my mind. Those green eyes flashing. That mouth open in a laugh. White flakes flashing around her as she runs through the snow, while I follow her--strangely--on all fours.

I cannot explain the memory or remember her name. But I do know, whatever her name is, or whatever she was to me, that somewhere in the past, in some way, I have loved her.

#

The next evening, the last night before our wedding, Jorunn wears a deep blue dress that shimmers with the light of the stars themselves. It is breathtakingly beautiful, but coldly, distantly so--like the woman who wears it. She doesn't smile like the girl with the furs. She doesn't converse while we dance--we can't think of anything to speak of. I can think of no part of my heart I could share with her as I did with the girl last night. I wonder how I thought I could ever grow to love her.

Tonight, Jorunn's offer of the tonic seems, not considerate, but overbearing. Last night I had only half a dose, and I felt better than ever. After Jorunn pours a dose into my punch, I barely sip at it, and when her back is turned, I dump the rest into a potted plant. There will be no more dances after our wedding tomorrow. If I'm to help the girl find her lost love, I want my mind to be as clear as possible.

The glance Jorunn gives the strange girl as she enters the dining room is cold enough to freeze. The girl doesn't seem to feel it through her furs. When Jorunn hands me off, her behavior toward the girl is sullen and hostile.

The girl smiles and curtsies. "The dress is stunning on you, majesty."

"It ought to be, for what it cost me." Jorunn starts to stride away, but then turns around and levels a fierce finger toward the girl. "Not a moment past the stroke of midnight."

The girl bows her head. "I know the bargain."

"Until midnight?" I ask, as I lead the girl into a dance.

The girl smiles. "For tonight, at least, I have you all to myself."

We dance a few dances, while the girl asks me on occasion if I remember anything about my life before. I have flashes of images that might be memories, but nothing that will help the girl in her search. After a while, the girl grows warm in her furs, and we leave the ballroom for the cold quiet of the balcony.

Together, we gaze at the stars and across the vast plains of snow. I remember seeing her like this, on a sunlit balcony in a faraway palace. I wanted to kiss her then, but I couldn't. Probably because she loved another. Just as I am promised to another now.

"Please," I ask in a low whisper. "Can't you tell me your name?"

She shakes her head with tears in her eyes. "Please stop asking. If you don't know it on your own, I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It is part of the bargain."

Does Jorunn know who this girl is? "The queen isn't here."

The girl squeezes her eyes shut against some memory. "I have seen the consequences of breaking promises to her. I will not risk it again."

It destroyed everything.

"Your lost love?" I ask.

She nods.

How could that great queen separate this woman from the man she so faithfully loves? What role could Jorunn possibly have in this spat between lovers?

We start down a staircase that leads to a stone path through the snow around the palace. The light from the ballroom windows pours out over us, shining on the girl's furs. The cloak I wear is mostly decorative, and I find myself wishing for furs of my own.

I wore a coat of white fur, thicker than thick.

The flash of memory has no bearing on the mystery I'm trying to solve.

I ask the girl, "If Jorunn knows of your lost love, why do you come to me for help? Why do you not ask her?"

"Allowing me to speak to you is all the help she is willing to give."

I do not begin to understand the complicated politics of this realm. When I am king, I will have to learn, but I will rely on Jorunn for a long while.

"After our wedding, perhaps, I can ask her to help..."

"After the wedding, it will be too late!" She storms down the path. "You'll be married to a woman you don't love! She'll have trapped you forever!"

I try to soothe her. "She won't be able to stop me from speaking to you."

She throws her hands in the air. "You don't understand! You'll never understand!" She is sobbing now. "It was hopeless from the beginning! You can't see the truth about her, or me, and I've no way to tell you! I've doomed us all! I don't deserve redemption, or mercy, or even compassion! I'm the faithless wife who threw away love!"

As she speaks the last words, something flies off her hand, flashing golden as it spirals into the snow. The girl flees down the path, silently sobbing.

I dive for the divot in the snow where the item fell. I pull out a small golden ring set with amethysts and emeralds and ice blue diamonds--the northern lights captured in stone. The ring glitters on my palm, round and flawless. I remember its every facet.

By the One who made the sky and stone, I pledge my heart and soul to you.

Clutching the ring, I race after her and call out, "Karina!"

#

I stood outside a cottage, trapped in the form of a white bear. The girl with a crown of yellow hair faced me fearlessly and agreed to be my bride, sliding the golden ring upon her left hand.

#

Short sunlit days on a beautiful tundra. She would ride on my back for hours, laughing for sheer joy as we raced across the snowy fields.

#

For nearly a year, she shared my bed. I was man by night and bear by day. She was forbidden to see my face and did not mind.

#

A year and a day, and the curse would be broken. Eleven months after our wedding, I woke to hot wax dripping on my shirt, from a candle she held over my face.

#

The palace dissolved into dust, and the troll queen arrived to claim her lawful prize. My wife screamed my name as I disappeared into a whirlwind of magic and snow.

#

In the shadows and snowbanks far from the palace, I grip Karina's shoulders and gaze deep into her familiar, beloved face. "Karina," I breathe. "I remember."

"Everything?" she asks, as tears stream down her face.

"Everything," I say, and kiss her senseless.

#

Karina and I sit huddled together beneath her coat of furs. I have told her of my months of imprisonment, of the magical tonic the troll queen forced upon me until I thought myself a willing captive. Karina has told me of the harrowing journey she has taken--the three dresses she received from three magical women, the way she rode the backs of all four winds to find me. If there was ever anything to forgive her for, the devotion she has shown in finding me more than absolves her.

I kiss her again as she finishes her tale, finding joy in finding her so real, in knowing my own mind and knowing her.

My own.

My beloved.

My wife.

It is like falling in love all over again.

"I'm so sorry," Karina says again. "I should never have listened to mother. If I hadn't burned that hateful candle--"

I silence her with another kiss. "If you hadn't betrayed me, I wouldn't have this moment. Meeting my wife all over again." I press her to my heart. "I could have no greater joy."

"But you're getting married tomorrow," Karina says. "By the terms of the curse, you must wed Jorunn."

"Trust me," I say, "and all will be well. So long as you will let me borrow your wedding ring."

#

In the bright light of midday, the ballroom has become a wedding chapel, filled nearly to bursting with lords and ladies and lesser subjects. I now know them for what they are--trolls whose perfect human appearances are nothing but glamours over huge, thick, ugly faces. My would-be wife is ugliest of all, her cruelty coming out upon her in black boils upon her snow-white face and long, pointed nose. The glamour hides her face for now, but it cannot hide the malicious triumph as she gazes upon me--her pet and prize. Her wedding to me will give her dominion over a human realm, and allow her kind to wreak havoc across the world of ordinary men.

She wears the golden sunlight gown, but in daylight, it seems dim and colorless. Even her flawless glamoured face is ugly when I compare her to my ordinary, beloved Karina. My wife is somewhere in the crowd, I know. She has promised to be here, and I trust her to keep her promises.

I do my best to play the magic-addled prince as the highest-ranking of the lords reads aloud their marriage ceremony--endless lists of the glories this alliance will bring to our two realms.

At last, the high lord cries out, merely for form's sake, "Is there any impediment to the marriage between this man and woman?"

"Only one," I shout, stepping away from Jorunn.

Jorunn's expression is black. I can almost see the troll's face beneath the glamour. "Eirik, what is this?"

"Under the laws of troll-kind," I tell the crowd, "Queen Jorunn can wed me if she keeps me here for a year and a day. But there is another law--as would-be husband to the queen, I have a right to set a standard for my bride. If she fails to meet it, all bond between us comes to an end." I stride across the dais to stare into Jorunn's black eyes. "All bonds," I say. "Matrimonial, moral, and magical. Isn't that right?"

Jorunn seems a heartbeat away from tearing out and eating my eyeballs, so I turn to the lord performing the marriage rite. "Isn't that right?"

The troll lord blinks at me. His human form looks like a jittery old man. "That is... technically correct," he says. "But I don't believe this is the right time."

"There is no better time!" I say. "The very last moment when I can see if she is worthy to be my bride."

Jorunn is proud, regal, icy. She steps toward me. "What is your challenge?" she demands. "Make it anything, and I will meet it."

No doubt she thinks she can. I have seen what her magic can do. If I set an enormous challenge--moving a mountain, emptying a sea--she will accomplish it easily. Fortunately, the challenge I plan is impossibly small.

"In the human realm," I say, "we marry under another law--older and more sacred. This marriage rite is bound by the words of a man and woman, and symbolized in the exchange of a pair of rings." I brandish the Karina's ring and hold it high. "By that law, my lawful wife is the one who fits this ring, and I can wed no other."

I search the room for Karina, but I can see her nowhere in the teeming, agitated crowd.

Jorunn stride toward me and snatches the ring from my hand. "Is that all?" she sneers. "Any woman can do that."

Her glamour has fooled even herself. She has forgotten that her hands only appear slender. Trolls can change the forms of others--into a white bear, for instance--even addle the minds of others into believing in changes that aren't real, but their own bodies are impervious to magic. Any alterations to themselves are mere glamours. Beneath her glamoured image, Jorunn's hands are as thick and blocky as any troll's.

Jorunn is unable to slip the ring onto so much as a fingertip.

In rage, she throws the ring onto the floor. It bounces down the stairs and lays flat at their base. "A trick!" she cries. "He has set an unfair challenge! Find me a woman who can fit that ring, or else the challenge is void!"

In the snowy plains outside, I hear the wind building in strength--a whistle, a howl, and at last a roar that bursts open the wide doors of the ballroom. The wind blows the crowd of trolls toward the walls and down to the floor, leaving an open path down which a tiny, yellow-haired girl, clad in a cloak made of every kind of fur, strides fearlessly toward the dais.

I climb down the stairs, pick up the ring, and go down on one knee to offer it to Karina. This time, I can do it with human hands.

"My lady," I say, gazing up into her smiling eyes. "Will you take this ring?"

I slide it upon the fourth finger of her left hand. It fits perfectly.

I kiss her in triumph as Jorunn roars with rage.

Her roar is soon drowned out by the roar of a wind that surrounds me and Karina, lifts us into the air, and carries out the ballroom doors. Soon, we are soaring over snow-covered plains, and before I can fully understand that I am free, the pointed towers of the troll's icy palace have disappeared from sight.

Karina lays on her stomach, the pale blue currents of wind keeping her aloft. She helps me to do the same. While I marvel at this miraculous wind, she is perfectly at ease, and I realize she has done this. My ordinary, unmagical, entirely human wife has saved me.

"Eirik," Karina says, "I would like to introduce you to an old friend of mine."

#

The North Wind takes us far beyond the tundra where I lived with Karina as a white bear, beyond even the cottage where she lived with her parents, and to a castle in a rocky mountain range that I remember from my boyhood. As the wind sets us upright on the ground before the main doors, I laugh for joy.

"Am I...?" I ask, barely able to believe that I'm standing in this place, where I can recognize every rock and flower that emerges from the melting snow of the springtime ground.

The North Wind now looks like a man--huge and old, with an impossibly large beard. "Prince Eirik," he says, "I have brought you and your bride to the lands of your family."

The full understanding of my freedom comes upon me. Not only am reunited with my bride, not only am I free of enchantment, but I am home, able to move about in the ordinary world like any ordinary man. After so many years of magic, I can think of nothing more wondrous.

I sweep Karina up in my arms and point her gaze toward the door. "Come, my love," I say. "I've waited a very long time to take you home."

[moonselune]

Hello 👋🏻😊

I'm the anon who requested the jealous Minthara scene after Wyll asked reader for a dance, and I must say, it was superb and absolutely brilliant *chef’s kiss* 😘

May I request a scene with Minthara and a female durge reader where Minthara gradually becomes cold and distant? Eventually she breaks up with the reader because the reader rejected Bhaal, a choice Minthara views as foolish because she believes that by doing so, the reader has become weak and unworthy to stand by her side as she returns to conquer the Underdark.

There’s no light at the end of the tunnel on this one. Though I would like to believe that Minthara will come to regret this eventually and try to make amends but it will be too late.

Ty!

OooOOoo so angsty oof - and thank you so much!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara x Durge | No More

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The relationship between you and Minthara had always been a tempestuous one—intense, passionate, but built on a foundation of shared ambition and a thirst for power. When you first met her, she was like a force of nature—fierce, unyielding, and driven by the same hunger for conquest that had once burned in you. Together, you made a formidable pair, each feeding off the other’s strength as you cut through enemies and forged your path through blood and darkness. But everything began to change after you made a choice that would alter the course of your fate forever: rejecting Bhaal.

Minthara had been quiet when you first made your decision, her amber eyes unreadable as she listened to you explain why you could no longer follow the god of murder. You had chosen to turn away from the dark path that had been laid out before you, seeking redemption, or perhaps simply a different kind of power—one not rooted in endless bloodshed. You knew Minthara wouldn’t approve, but you hoped she would understand. After all, wasn’t your strength still there? Wasn’t your love for her unwavering, despite the shift in your allegiance?

At first, nothing seemed to change between you. She didn’t voice her displeasure, and while her gaze had grown more critical, she remained by your side. But as the days wore on, you started to feel the subtle distance creeping in between you two. Minthara no longer sought you out in battle as she once had; her praises, once sharp and filled with admiration, became few and far between. She stopped lingering beside you after skirmishes, her touch no longer seeking yours in the quiet moments when the world fell still.

It was the nights that hurt the most. Where once she would slip into your tent, her body pressed close to yours as the fires of both combat and passion cooled, now she slept alone, claiming it was for focus, to keep her mind sharp for the battles ahead. At first, you accepted it, telling yourself that this was just a phase, that her coldness was temporary, a reflection of her own internal conflict.

But the distance only grew.

Her once fierce gaze, which had always burned with intensity when it fell upon you, now barely glanced your way. You felt like a shadow in her presence, a reminder of a choice she viewed as weakness. Conversations became brief and impersonal. Her once-commanding voice, so vibrant in your ear, became clipped, laced with disappointment she didn’t bother to hide. When you tried to reach out, to ask her what was wrong, she would merely shrug, deflecting your concerns with vague words about focusing on the future, on her mission.

You knew it was coming—the final blow—but nothing could have prepared you for the moment it finally landed.

The two of you stood in the shadows of your camp, the campfire’s flickering light casting long, wavering shadows across her face. She looked regal, even in her silence, a picture of strength and cold beauty as she stared at you with those piercing amber eyes. But where once you had felt a fire of affection there, now you felt only ice.

“I cannot continue this,” Minthara said, her voice sharp and emotionless, like the crack of a whip. "You are not who I thought you were."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You blinked, your breath catching in your throat. "Minthara… what are you saying?"

She met your gaze then, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of regret behind her cold exterior, but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the hard mask of a warrior—of a conqueror.

“You rejected Bhaal,” she said, her tone almost accusing. “You turned your back on the very power that gave you strength, the power that made you worthy of standing beside me.”

“I turned my back on endless slaughter,” you countered, your voice barely concealing the hurt. “I chose a different path, one that didn’t involve mindless murder, Minthara. That doesn’t make me weak.”

She shook her head, her expression unyielding. “It does. You had the chance to embrace power, to ascend beyond your limits, and you turned away from it. You’ve made yourself soft, weak… unworthy.”

Her words cut deep, but you couldn’t let her see how much they hurt. You straightened your back, meeting her gaze with defiance. "So that's it then? Because I didn’t give in to Bhaal’s madness, you’re just going to walk away? After everything we’ve been through?"

Minthara’s face remained impassive, her arms crossed over her chest. “You were once someone I could rely on, someone I could see standing beside me as I conquered the Underdark. But you are no longer that person. You’ve chosen a path of mercy, and that is a path I will not follow. I need strength at my side, not weakness.”

For a moment, the air between you was thick with tension, neither of you speaking. You could feel the weight of her words pressing down on you, suffocating the love you had once shared, choking the bond that had once been so strong. There was no more passion in her eyes, no more admiration. All you saw was cold, ruthless judgment.

“If you cannot stand with me,” she said, her voice final, “then you will not stand with me at all.”

With that, she turned away, leaving you standing alone, the firelight casting long shadows over your figure. You stood there, frozen, the weight of her rejection sinking in.

For days after, the emptiness gnawed at you. The love you had shared, the passion, all of it felt like a cruel dream, one that had slipped through your fingers the moment you had chosen to turn away from Bhaal. But as time passed, the ache began to dull. You found strength in the path you had chosen, in the choices you had made. You surrounded yourself with new allies, rebuilt your purpose, and thrived without her.

And though you would sometimes think back to Minthara, to the sharpness of her words, the coldness in her eyes, you came to realize that you didn’t need her to define your strength. You had chosen a different kind of power—one that didn’t rely on the brutal, merciless ideals that she held so dear. You found peace in your decision, and as the years went on, you thrived, free from the shadows of your past.

Rumors reached your ears eventually, whispers of Minthara’s victories in the Underdark, of her conquest and her rise to power. But those rumors were always tinged with something darker—a loneliness that clung to her, a coldness that had only grown in your absence. You imagined, sometimes, that she regretted what she had done, that she had come to realize that power wasn’t everything, that she had thrown away something precious.

But by then, it was too late.

You had moved on. Thriving, stronger than ever, without her.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Silly minthy, hope you guys enjoyed it ! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Soji and Raiden giving forgotten queen guide around the Japan area of Valhalla as both guide and guard as she is wearing best silk dress and adorn with gold jewelry as she told them some people who are Japanese start appearing in her area and she just wanted to make sure that there is no culture misshapen

-You ignored the stares, not bothered by them, as you were walking alongside Raiden and Soji in the Shinto pantheon. You knew that you stuck out, wearing a rather revealing black gown made of silk, adorned with gold jewelry draping along your body.

-To you, you looked normal, this were the types of clothes you wore in your homeland and in your area of Valhalla, but for those in the Shinto pantheon, it was a little jarring, as you looked so exotic.

-Raiden was elated when you asked him to show you around, and Soji joined shortly after, offering to be your bodyguard, as there had been a slight uptick in crime, and you were a walking target, or so they thought.

-They both knew that you could handle yourself, knowing that you are a powerful warrior in your own right, even when unarmed, but others around you didn’t know that.

-You told them that you had been getting more visitors to your side of Valhalla, people from various pantheons, with the most being from the Shinto pantheon, as they were curious about your culture, wanting to know more.

-You welcomed the visitors, making sure anyone who came felt like they were not strangers, welcoming them with kindness, food, and friendship.

-This is what drove you to go to the Shinto pantheon, as you wanted to know more about their culture, to learn about them, that way you could make sure there were no social or cultural incidents that could offend the visitors.

-Raiden loved the idea of people traveling to the different pantheons, as it was a good way to meet knew friends, and in his case with the Hindu pantheon, finding strong opponents, like Shiva.

-You got to speak with many merchants, many who looked a little intimidated speaking with you, mainly because you were stunning and you seemed to radiate with regal aura, they could easily tell you were someone of power, even without knowing who you were.

-Those who had bad intentions who had seen you when you first arrived, quickly backed off, seeing not only one of the strongest and most well-known rikishi in the world, but one of the deadliest swordsmen as well.

-They would be foolish to try anything with those two around you, despite the two of them grinning and acting goofy while you were trying mochi, finding it not only very chewy, but stretchy as well, thinking it was cute.

-You appreciated seeing this side of things, seeing the home of those who were visiting you, and you learned some things about their culture that made you realize that despite the cultural differences, it was easy to make friends and make others feel welcome.

-You were looking at an artisan’s booth of blown glass when Soji shouted, “Y/N!” you heard him draw his sword and you instantly turned, seeing a thief lunging at you, trying to grab any of the jewelry hanging on your body.

-Your hand shot out, catching him by his face, stopping his approach instantly as your eyes felt like they were drilling ice into his body, “Don’t touch me.”

-When he tried to get away from you, you let him go, but when he charged again, you grabbed his arm and threw him over your shoulder, making it look easy as you slammed him into the ground, knocking the wind out of him.

-Soji was quick to put himself in front of you as you stood, defending you while Raiden spoke, “Are you okay Y/N?” you were trying to control your breathing, the adrenaline slowing as you nodded, “I am.” Soji apologized for not reacting more quickly, but you weren’t bothered as the would-be thief was taken away.

-The merchant had been impressed with your skills and strength, gifting you a small blown figurine of a rabbit, which you thanked him for, when he refused to let you refuse, it was a cute gift, and so unique.

-As you got ready to head home, you turned to your two escorts, “Thank you for indulging my request for today, and thank you for both for walking around with me. If you two would like to come to my pantheon, I will treat you both to a tour and a meal.”

-Raiden immediately agreed, looking a bit excited to spend more time with you, which did surprise Soji a bit, but he agreed after a moment as well, looking forward to seeing a new pantheon and culture.

-They couldn’t wait to visit and you were looking forward to their visit as well, wanting them to enjoy themselves.

[thorns-and-starlight]

Introspective - Thranduil

Fandom: The Hobbit

Characters: Thranduil

Words: 391

・❥・ "So much lost already," he whispered into the night, "and yet still more I fear to lose."

Day 2 - Introspective

The shadows felt thicker tonight. They crept into the vast halls of the Woodland Realm, slipping through cracks in the stone like a whispered omen. Thranduil stood alone by the balcony, his silver robes shimmering softly in the moonlight, but the chill wind touched his skin like the ghost of old wounds never healed.

He clasped his hands tightly, steadying their trembling. Around him, Mirkwood lay quiet, its beauty marred only by memories of what had been lost. Each rustle of leaves seemed to carry echoes of a life that had once thrived before shadow darkened his kingdom, before fire burned away everything precious, everything good.

How long had he hidden this pain behind walls of ice? Thranduil had mastered the art of a carefully sculpted indifference; a shield forged of regal detachment, protecting both himself and those who looked to him for strength. But tonight, it cracked under the weight of sorrowful thoughts that whispered of endless loss.

The loneliness gripped him tighter, a tangible ache. Memories rose unbidden of a smile, a gentle touch, warmth that had once filled his halls. A warmth he would never again hold. His wife. Her laughter had once brought life and music to these cold halls. Her loss was an endless echo, one he had learned to silence but never erase.

He turned abruptly, pacing restlessly. The anxious shadows flickered around him, each step amplifying fears he had thought buried. His son's future, the safety of his people. These burdens had always rested heavily on his shoulders. Yet lately, anxiety had seeped deeper, winding through his heart like vines. Would Mirkwood stand strong in the face of the growing darkness? Would Legolas thrive under the weight of his heritage, or would fate claim him too?

Thranduil paused, closing his eyes as he leaned against cool stone, breathing slowly to calm the storm within. How fragile his mask felt in these solitary hours, how easy it would be for grief to overwhelm him entirely.

He lifted his gaze toward the sky, where stars glittered distantly, impassive and unchanging. "So much lost already," he whispered into the night, "and yet still more I fear to lose."

The night offered no answers. Only silence, only cold. And within it, Thranduil stood bearing his pain, knowing he must wear his mask again by morning.

[sludgevomit]

SludgeVomit’s Goretober Exhibition: Day 22

Cannibalism

Drumming my fingers against the marble countertop that was placed in the center of my kitchen. Each tap went along with the roaring music that came from the speaker that was built into the sleek fridge. Island that I stood at was littered with coolers, paperwork and vacuum sealed bags. Mindset corrupted by spite. Clouding the rational side of my brain as I stared down at the copies of invoices and atrociously written checks. Betrayed by a once stable client who had now tested the strength of trust. Having received funds that were lesser than what had been stated in thoroughly examined contracts. Becoming vengeful at the remembrance of a smug attitude and false promises that spilled from the mouth of my once dear friend and business partner.

Allowing my hands to work as the vision of the other man throwing the envelope down on the table in my direction charged my neurons. The lack of respect was abhorrent even in memory. Growling as hate forced my lips to twitch as I placed ice packs used for long-haul trucks within the bottom of the chilled container. Raising a hand over the arraignment of packaged meat. Pieces that varied in color, having one assume that these products were of cattle and swine. Yet, only I had known the reality. A conniving grin curled my lips as I read the name laminated onto a sticker in the middle of the package. Hinting to the identity of the flesh having once been a living being. Using newfound caution to prevent any rips in the plastic as I removed this taboo factor. Finding relish in the notion of the worthless client partaking in the enjoyment of feasting on human remains. Believing that the meat is nothing but an expensive cut of beef as they dig in with a regal appetite.

[therentyoupay]

TRYP thoughts on characterization

jack frost // elsa | characterization considerations

PART 2 | OVERVIEW: the tl;dr of personality + dialogue choices

ground rules + intro

overview: the tl;dr of my personality + dialogue choices

deep dive: characterization, personality, + identity

shared ice powers (or AU-equivalent) + shared connections

questions/points to consider as you write

PART 2 | OVERVIEW: the tl;dr of personality + dialogue choices

(this was written super fast so tell me if i missed stuff)

for elsa, i look to create and explore moments that highlight her journey from fear to self-acceptance. i focus on her struggles with control, her deep sense of responsibility, and her moments of quiet reflection (or LOUD, powerful, FREEDOM). when writing her personality, i try to capture the sometimes contradictory variables of her reserved nature, her inner strength, her desire for freedom, and the way she often internalizes (suppresses, ignores, fights, hides) her emotions. i also pay attention to how she interacts with others, particularly the contrast between her public demeanor and the more intimate, personal side that she rarely shows. 

in terms of register, she adopts a more formal tone, more precise diction, slightly more advanced vocabulary. readers have described my elsa as generally varying degrees of:

“regal,”

“proper,”

“classy,”

“measured,”

“analytical,”

“thoughtful,”

“astute,”

“clever,”

“intelligent,”

“responsible,”

“introspective,”

“dignified,”

“determined,”

“guarded,”

“reserved,”

“funny,” and

“(deeply) passionate,”

although to suggest that she’s only those things would be to do her a disservice (we are all messy, sometimes!),

so it’s all about balance and context. (re: passionate: please remember that there is a physical and metaphorical storm inside of her. <3 )

for jack, i’m drawn to the contrast between his outwardly playful, carefree persona (his center, rooted in his pain and his inherent optimism and resilience born from trauma and perseverance and survival) and the deeper, more complex emotions he hides (ignores, neglects, doesn’t understand) beneath the surface. i look to emphasize moments that show his loneliness, his sense of duty (especially when it ties to his need to belong, to be loved or WORTHY of being loved, his feeling that if he does not do something for someone/if he is not useful then he will be abandoned), and the way he uses humor to create light, deflect from his pain, bring joy to others, and cope with what he’s lost. when writing his dialogue, i focus on capturing his wit, his tendency to tease, and the occasional glimpses of his more serious, reflective side. i also think about how his interactions with elsa differ from his interactions with others, showing the unique bond they share. 

when i write jack, it’s not as punny as chat from miraculous ladybug… i love it when his humor (and elsa’s!) is sharp and clever and fast. i love when he uses self-deprecating humor (but it’s usually layered; he’s saying it lightly but he means it heavily, and the humor and dry tone and the carefree word choice has a lot about ‘hiding in plain sight’, sometimes, i think). readers have described my vision of jack as,

“playful,”

“protective,”

“witty,”

“optimistic,”

“clever,”

“insecure,”

“smitten,”

“hilarious,”

“tender,”

“supportive,”

“impatient,”

“selfish(/selfless, depending),”

occasionally “possessive” (especially re: fear of abandonment/rejection/loss),

“covetous,”

“jealous,” “envious,”

“tenacious,” and,

in his own way, “guarded,” too.

in their dialogue, i aim for a mix of lightness and depth. jack might generally bring a playful tone to the conversation, but elsa can absolutely be light and playful, too, depeneding on where they are at in their journeys. 

elsa’s responses are often measured, thoughtful, and occasionally tinged with uncertainty or hesitation, reflecting her internal struggles and her cautious approach to new emotions. the dialogue between them often becomes a dance of words, where what’s left unsaid is just as important as what is spoken.

both of them speak highly respectfully to one another but (we are all human) can also occasionally lash out; one of the natural byproducts of getting to know someone so well is that you also create an arsenal of all the most effective ways to (intentionally, or perhaps not) hurt them. 

(at the center readers…. you know. 🥹  please please please no spoilers. 💕🙏)

OVERALL, THEIR DYNAMIC (DEPENDING ON ANGST/WHUMP/FLUFF/DRAMA LEVELS):

what fascinates me most about elsa and jack is the way they mirror each other. 

ISOLATION: both of them are, in their own ways, defined by isolation—elsa by her fear of hurting others, and jack by his literal invisibility to the world. 

IT IS ABOUT THE YEARNING: they both yearn for connection, for someone who sees them for who they truly are, yet they’re afraid of the vulnerability that comes with that. in my mind, their interactions are usually charged with this tension, a push and pull between wanting to get closer and fearing the consequences of doing so.

WHAT IS LEFT UNSPOKEN (UNTIL IT IS NOT 👀): when i write them together, i’m constantly aware of the unspoken emotions that simmer beneath the surface—the trust that’s slowly building, the attraction that both excites and terrifies them, and the fear of what it would mean to truly let someone in. there’s a kind of quiet longing in their relationship, a recognition of kindred spirits who have found each other in the midst of chaos. (pining. SO MUCH PINING.)

JOURNEYS: elsa’s journey is one of self-discovery, of learning to embrace her powers and her emotions rather than fear them. jack’s journey is about finding his place in a world that has long forgotten him, about understanding that he’s worthy of love and connection—and not just for the contributions that he makes to the Guardians, to the world, to the children, to nature. Just him. 

GROWTH: together, they challenge each other, push each other to grow, and in doing so, they start to heal the wounds that have defined them for so long. (well. at least when things go well. 👀 I HAVE ALSO BEEN KNOWN TO DABBLE IN ANGST.)

MUTUAL DEPENDENCE AND TRUST: both characters are strong (physically mentally emotionally) (and weak) in their own right, but they eventually come to realize that they are stronger together.

DEFINED BY SACRIFICES (*coughSISTERScough*): sacrifice is a recurring theme in their individual journeys and their burgeoning relationship (in any universe). both elsa and jack are a times willing to sacrifice their own well-being for the other—sometimes to their own detriment. jack’s determination to keep elsa safe, even at the cost of his own life/happiness/feelings, and elsa’s willingness to push herself beyond her limits to protect jack/keep jack/keep jack but also keep him away. however, this selflessness also creates a barrier between them, as they are both reluctant to fully admit their feelings (are afraid of being selfish, or of being perceived as selfish), fearing that doing so would be a distraction from their mission/duties/responsibilities, or a weakness they cannot afford (UNTIL THEY CAVE AND THE TENSION BREAKS AND THEY GIVE IN AT LONG LAST).

tl;dr

elsa and jack are two deeply complex characters, each carrying the weight of their pasts, their powers, and their responsibilities. their relationship is marked by a delicate balance of strength and vulnerability, trust and fear, duty and desire. 

as they navigate the dangers (emotional, physical) around them, they also grapple with their growing feelings for one another, feelings that challenge their perceptions of themselves and their place in the world. 

together, they form a powerful yet fragile bond, one that is constantly tested by the forces, pressures, and expectations around them and their own internal struggles. 

i love writing this story in so many (33 and counting?? universes) because their story is one of mutual growth, as they each learn to embrace their vulnerabilities and find strength in their connection.

🥹💕🙏

[the-rad-pineapple]

a love to die for (hannigram fic)

Hannibal contracts Hanahaki Disease in season one due to his feelings for Will. Believing no one can love a monster like himself, he tries to hide it. He’s resigned himself to death since he can see no other outcome. But Will can.

Or: Hannibal gets Hanahaki Disease and freaks out (he doesn’t think he’s freaking out).

ao3

words: 7.6k

Of course it's roses, Hannibal thinks to himself. They're regal and timeless. Beautiful, yet they can draw blood if one isn't careful enough. They're ironic and showy. They're a lot like him in many ways.

No other flower is so universally known as a symbol for romantic affection than the red rose. This is the flower people think of when they think of romance. When they want it to be obvious it's romance. If Hannibal was anyone else, he might think it fitting. Amusing, even. But Hannibal isn't anyone else. He isn't anything normal or commonplace—his first real inconsistency with the rose. And, since Hannibal is anything but regular, he never thought this would happen to him. He never thought it was possible that this could happen to him. The irony.

There's blood in his immaculate bathroom sink that perfectly matches the shade of the wet rose petals beside it. His doctor's mind took over the second he saw the red liquid dotting his sink, and his only thought was: It's far too soon for blood. And then he saw the rose with its small stem and knew it had to be the sizable thorns on the plant causing all the blood. His doctor's mind continues to work, despite the impossibility of this disease existing within Hannibal, and it reminds him that roses are one of the deadlier strains of the disease due to their thorns.

The disease. Hanahaki Disease.

It's an extremely rare condition. Hannibal had only seen it twice in his time as a surgeon. Since he primarily worked in the ER, Hannibal never operated on a patient with Hanahaki Disease himself, but he sat in on a couple operations. It's an extremely delicate and unpredictable surgery. Only one of the two patients Hannibal had seen survived. Survival rates decrease as age increases, and Hannibal wouldn't call himself young. His survival rate is well below thirty percent if he were to have the surgery to remove the roses in his lungs now. But he's getting ahead of himself. The disease is hardly anything alarming now. He can overcome this. This is simply another obstacle he'll surpass.

Hannibal pointedly does not give more thought on the topic. He does not bother asking how or when or who; it will be over soon enough. It's the lie he gets away with for a little over a week before he wakes up choking on petals.

Hannibal wakes up and finds his body in complete panic. He's covered in sweat so thick his hair is sticking to his forehead. He can hear himself desperately trying to suck in more air in loud, useless gulps. His adrenaline roars in his ears and sends unnecessary strength to the fingers he has fisted in his silk sheets. He breathes in another ragged breath, but his throat clogs completely. He's racing towards the bathroom before he's made the decision to move. He is not in control of himself. The panic worsens and turns his blood to ice. He is afraid. He is out of control and afraid. Two things he swore he'd never be again.

Hannibal forces himself to vomit into the toilet. It takes him three tries before the petals fall and he can breathe again. All he does for a few minutes is breathe and slowly regain control of himself. Once his mind has left its panicked state, he notices the blood and red petals that fill the toilet. They swirl together in the water, their matching colors oddly picturesque. Hannibal immediately flushes them away with a shaking hand before he can find them beautiful. He fears it might be too late.

Hannibal catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and is struck paralyzed. He almost doesn't recognize himself. His hair is in utter disarray, dried tears he hadn't felt cling to his cheeks, and his face is flushed nearly the same color as the roses. Blood lines his lips.

Afraid and out of control.

He's denied it, until now. The cause of his disease. But Hannibal knows. The answer isn't as far away as he thought he put it, but he knows who's at fault. It's a shame, really. Hannibal had had plans for Will. He'd had plans for himself involving Will, such as Will becoming the scapegoat for his crimes. But he'll be able to find a replacement soon enough. For now, he must deal with Will Graham.

~~~~

Their lives are intertwined enough that Hannibal knows Will's schedule. Or, rather, since Will's schedule is so unpredictable, Hannibal knows the rare moments when Will is at home. Like he is now. Sleeping innocently in the bed he thought putting in the main living room of his house was a sensible place for. Will's dogs know Hannibal, so all he received upon his entrance was a few curious looks. He can feel a few of the dogs still staring at him, but they've become accustomed to his presence at Will's bedside enough that they don't react.

Hannibal looms over Will in front of the window, so the moonlight illuminates Will's sleeping form. He looks young and at ease in a way he never is when he's awake. Dark curls are splayed against his white pillow, and his lips are slightly parted. His face is relaxed and soft. Youthful. Will's somehow tangled himself in his various sheets and blankets, and they're woven around his body. They hardly cover him, and his shirt has ridden up to show off a delicious stripe of skin all along the side nearest Hannibal. Will's skin looks porcelain white and fragile in the pale moonlight. Hannibal is close enough he can touch. So he does.

Hannibal places the fingertips of his right hand delicately on Will's bare side. His skin is hot but soft. Hannibal needs more, but he withdraws despite his desires. A quiet, helpless sound—nearly a whimper—escapes Will's lips, and he tosses his head to face Hannibal. Hannibal holds his breath and remains completely still.

Will continues to sleep, now with his angelic face pointed towards Hannibal. And, oh, what he'd do to kiss that face. Hannibal is certain Will's never been kissed gently. How he yearns to be the first one to give him that gentleness. He'd ruin the boy for anyone else. He'd claim him through softness, reliability, and loyalty. Will would never willingly be with anyone else after the way Hannibal would take care of him.

Hannibal's lungs suddenly catch, and he has to fight off a coughing fit by holding his breath for a moment and breathing shallowly afterwards. He swallows and blinks back reactionary tears once he's regained control. It's a brutal reminder of what he's come here to do.

Hannibal had considered one of his kitchen knives or his favorite scalpel for this, but in the end, he decided to use his hands. The nature of his disease requires him to kill Will as intimately as possible.

With the practiced, smooth movements akin to a big cat, Hannibal gets onto the bed, his knees resting on either side of Will's torso. He doesn't touch Will, not yet. For now he hovers, just above the sleeping man, and watches.

Hannibal can feel Will's body heat between his legs. His right leg nearly touches Will's bare side, and Hannibal can't help himself as he ghosts his fingers down Will's skin once more. His touch is reverent. Worshipful. He wants to sink his claws into the flawless skin and claim. But his immaculate self-control wins again, and he pulls his hand away. Will makes another one of those almost-whimpers. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, and a worried crinkle forms between his brow.

"Shhh, Will," Hannibal finds himself whispering, and, as if by magic, Will's face clears again into soft tranquility.

There is nothing and there will be nothing as beautiful as this creature beneath Hannibal right now.

Hannibal delicately brushes an unruly curl off Will's forehead. He's so beautiful it hurts. The tip of Hannibal's finger softly runs down Will's forehead, down his cheek, over his chewed lip, and down to his neck. He's so vulnerable. So open like this. So unaware. Nearly innocent. His right hand covers Will's throat—barely any pressure is applied—but it's enough for Hannibal to feel Will's soft, warm skin. His steady pulse. It beats in time to the peaceful rise and fall of his chest between Hannibal's legs.

It's the most intimate moment in the entirety of Hannibal's life.

~~~~

It is a bit jarring, finding himself unable to kill Will. Even more so that he couldn't do it to save his own life. It's against everything he is. What's even worse is he wouldn't even know why he's acting this way if he wasn't suffocating on rose petals. He had no idea he could even feel like this. It should be exciting and novel. Instead, it's stupidly terrifying.

But Hannibal refuses to be governed by fear and failure, so he presses on. Besides, how long can this truly last? His feelings for Will can't be anything but a temporary fascination. He's even willing to admit he's obsessed. Infatuated. He won't lie and say he hasn't thought about Will in his bed. Perhaps he simply needs to be fulfilled sexually, and his obsession with Will Graham will fade back into morbid curiosity.

But…even after nearly a week of flirtation and a night in bed with Alana Bloom, his feelings for Will haven't faded. It almost seems like the opposite has occurred. Guilt and shame are two emotions Hannibal hardly ever feels now; they're something he left in his youth. Or so he thought. After his night with Alana, Hannibal feels dirty and wrong. Unbalanced. Guilty. His edges are rough and uneven, and he struggles to stretch his person-suit around his new ill-fitting shape. It's absolutely horrible.

It also doesn't help that the disease has progressed. He nearly had to stop during intercourse with Alana to catch his breath. It's utterly embarrassing. Embarrassment is another emotion he thought he'd left behind.

He tries to purge Will from his mind and thoughts, but it only seems to cause him to think of Will even more. He tries locking Will away in the depths of his mind palace like he does with all unpleasant and unwanted thoughts and desires. It doesn't work. Will always manages to escape, and Hannibal has no idea how. His mind often conjures up the image of Will asleep and beautiful and completely at peace on the night Hannibal had intended to kill him. He can't help but marvel at such beauty, even just the memory of it. It's torture, but Hannnibal can't seem to help himself, and his thoughts always drift back to Will. He's struggling, and for the first time in his life, Hannibal isn't quite sure what to do about it.

He's with Will now in one of their not-quite-therapy-but-just-conversation sessions. Hannibal used to derive such joy from these sessions, but now it's become a constant battle to reign in his feelings and keep himself from coughing. The last person Hannibal ever wants to know about his predicament is Will.

"So," Will says from his seat across from Hannibal, "you and Alana."

Neither of them had told anyone. Of course his clever boy had figured it out. …Hannibal really needs to stop internally calling Will his. Things like that are why he's choking on roses.

With a practiced nonchalance, Hannibal replies, "Does it surprise you?"

"No," is the immediate response, then a beat later, "Yes."

"Why? Alana and I have known each other for years. We enjoy similar hobbies and topics of conversation. It only makes sense we are compatible on a physical level as well."

"I know, I just…" Will trails off. He shrugs his shoulders in a jerky movement. "I don't know. It's none of my business anyway."

Will clearly has thoughts on the matter, but he's shutting himself away. Hannibal won't have it. In a softer tone, Hannibal says, "It's alright, Will. We are friends, are we not? Surely, we can speak about our personal lives together."

"Yeah, I guess. I…" He hesitates again. He shifts and refuses to meet Hannibal's eyes. "It feels…sudden to me. Out of the blue."

"Out of the blue," Hannibal echoes.

"Yeah. Random."

It was. It was nothing more than a response to how he feels about Will. There's no point in denying it. "And that bothers you?" Hannibal questions.

Will doesn't answer. His eyes wander the room, snagging on different pieces of decor. Hannibal thinks he won't answer, but then his eyes suddenly catch Hannibal's, and Hannibal knows no detail will go unnoticed. What is his boy planning? Hannibal is helpless as a dangerous thrill runs up his spine. One of the many, many things Hannibal enjoys about Will is his unpredictability.

Gazes locked, Will asks, "Did you enjoy it?"

Hannibal contains his pleasant surprise under his mask of neutrality. He wants to see if he can push Will further. He wants to see if he can get Will to ask him outright.

"Enjoy what?" asks Hannibal.

"Sex with Alana."

Hannibal is thrown back into the sensation of being buried deep within her, suffocatingly close to her, as he struggles to breathe past blood-red rose petals climbing up his throat. The thorns scratch and tear at his throat as he tries to keep a steady rhythm. It all tasted like blood, which should have made things more erotic for him since he's always secretly enjoyed a bit of roughness in sex, but all it did was remind him of his inadequacies. He remembers being grateful for how well he can craft a mask and keep wearing it. He remembers struggling to bring her pleasure, something he's never had trouble doing before, because he couldn't catch his breath like some sort of inattentive, lazy lover. He never reached completion himself. He had to fake it, which was another first for him.

Oh, how far he's fallen for Will.

"Damn," Will says quietly, jolting Hannibal back to the present, "that bad?"

Hannibal didn't think he'd given anything away, but of course Will noticed. His brilliant boy.

Hannibal replies, "Mediocracy isn't bad."

Will raises his eyebrows in disbelief, but there's a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "Did you just call Alana mediocre in bed?"

"You seem to be enjoying this quite a bit."

Will immediately blushes a pretty pink and looks down. "You're just so…I don't know. Untouchable. It almost doesn't seem real that you'd sleep with someone."

"I am human, Will."

Will looks up again at that. He smiles something soft and lovely. A smile that Hannibal has only seen directed at himself. He cherishes it every time he sees it.

But that smile is deadly, and Hannibal is reminded of it when a familiar twinge tickles his throat. His chest feels heavy. Full. Like it's a tangled mess. Hannibal logically knows it can't be that bad yet, but he feels as if his lungs are weighed down. He easily slips on a mask of neutrality to hide his discomfort, but he thinks Will notices because he stops smiling and begins talking about the case Jack's thrown him into.

~~~~

Will has a fever. Hannibal can smell its sickly sweetness on him. He can feel the heat of it when he's near him. Will speaks of vivid nightmares and constant headaches. It's encephalitis. It must be. It's early in its stages. If Hannibal thought he'd see the result of it, he'd let it fester within Will for longer. See what it would do to a mind so reluctant to accept its own darkness. But Hannibal doesn't think he has the time.

The Hanahaki Disease has worsened. He coughs often and has been able to play it off as a cold, but it's coming up on two weeks of his so-called cold, and patients and colleagues alike have asked if he should see a doctor since his cold is hanging on for so long. All of his handkerchiefs come away bloody. The rose thorns have all but shredded his throat, and it's becoming too painful to eat sometimes. He'll begin losing weight if he hasn't already.

He can deny it no further. He cannot fight it any longer.

Hannibal is completely, unconditionally, and eternally in love with Will.

The irony of his demise makes him want to howl and bite and claw in frustration. He has become undone from something as cruel and simple as love. It is pathetic. But it is also inevitable. His time left is exponentially decreasing. Anything he's ever wanted to do, he'll have to do within the upcoming months. He wants to visit Florence one more time, and his heart aches because he doesn't know if he will be healthy enough to make the trip once he's tied up his affairs in Baltimore. Hannibal has no doubts that he won't see the next year. It is all ending for him. He only has a few hunts left in him, but he's only planning on one more. A tribute to Will.

His love.

His undoing.

His impossibility.

It's probably wise this hunt is his last. Hannibal struggles up the stairs of his own home and has been attacked by unexpected coughing fits more and more recently. It was completely humiliating when he could hardly get back in control of himself after a coughing fit during one of Franklyn's sessions that Franklyn decided to end it early for the sake of Hannibal's own health. Franklyn may be desperate and a bit obtuse, but Hannibal won't forget this politeness.

Hannibal wants to make a bouquet of his roses and place them in his design for Will, but they're covered in his blood and saliva, and Hannibal would prefer his last months to be as a free man. He'll just have to make do with the ones he bought to mirror his own.

It's night now. Dark. Hushed and sleepy. It's the world he belongs in. His hunt is tonight. Hannibal had sent Will off to the hospital with Alana that morning to Dr. Sutcliff. Hannibal had told Sutcliff to search for encephalitis, and Sutcliff promised he would. Alana had been texting him updates. Will's receiving the treatment he needs. However, getting Will to a hospital today was not a completely selfless decision. Will is likely to be in the hospital for a few days, allowing Hannibal to leave his design behind for lesser minds to sift through. Hannibal is afraid Will would deconstruct his design too quickly. That he'll see Hannibal in the design too soon. Ideally, Will is going to put it together once Hannibal is on his deathbed. By then, he will look ill and helpless, and he's counting on that to be the reason Will is kind to him in the little time he has left before he dies. He hopes Will is going to refuse to lock him up for his remaining days. He believes he can pull it off, but Will is unpredictable—his actions entirely his own—despite Hannibal's manipulations. Hannibal loves him for it.

It was difficult to find a pig that resembles Will for many reasons. The first and most obvious being Will is unique. There is no one like him. He is a star amongst the inky blackness of space while all other people are moons. It's impossible to copy perfection, so Hannibal doesn't try. He merely finds someone who has similar physical traits as Will. A head full of dark curls (this one's is a lighter brown than Will's) with a beard, blue eyes (the shade is all wrong on the one Hannibal found), and a slender yet strong build (it's not quite the same, too much meat in certain areas, but it's close). Hardly perfect. A poor substitute. But it will be clear to Will who it's supposed to be, and that's all that matters.

Hannibal found the man in West Virginia. He's a factory worker with no family and even less friends. Hannibal comes for him on Friday, knowing he won't be missed until Monday. Hannibal waits until the man is home and a few drinks in before slipping in through the door of his apartment, the lock easily picked. Hannibal is quick and quiet, and the man hardly knew what was happening by the time Hannibal had reached him and had his hands around his neck. He'd come from behind and snapped his neck while he was still in his recliner, a trashy reality tv show continuing to play.

Apparently, a simple snap of the neck is too much exertion now, and Hannibal's lungs catch, sending him into a coughing fit while he still stands behind the recliner housing the corpse. He had the mind to bring disposable face masks like the ones he used to wear as a surgeon in case a coughing fit occurred, and he'd have to prevent himself from spewing his DNA all over a crime scene. He's thankful for his foresight now as he tucks away the bloody mask and pulls on a fresh one. Hannibal refuses to get sloppy now, even if it's his last kill. They will not find any trace of his DNA here.

Transporting the body is another matter entirely. Hannibal should be able to wrap it in something and simply carry it out the door, down the stairs, and into his car, but he doesn't have the stamina now with the disease running rampant in his lungs. He'd debated and thought and remade his design a dozen times or more, but he'd come to the realistic conclusion that it won't be to his liking. What he wants and what he's physically able to do are two separate realities.

Hannibal shoves the body by the shoulders, and it falls to the floor. The thump isn't as loud as he thought it'd be, and his fear of nosy neighbors decreases somewhat. The action nearly sends him into another coughing fit, but he holds his breath for a few moments before breathing shallowly again. If only part of his lungs get air, they catch on the roses less, preventing him from feeling like he has to cough as badly. He's nearly mastered shallow breathing.

Once he can breathe smoothly and his adrenaline has somewhat faded, Hannibal rounds the recliner, bends down and grasps the corpse by the ankles, and drags it across the floor into the hallway. He'd looked up the floor plans for this apartment complex before his hunt, and drags the body towards the bedroom. His lungs catch. They catch again, and his breath hitches. He slowly stands and breathes shallowly for another few moments before bending down and dragging the corpse into the bedroom.

Hannibal has to take a second break to regulate his breathing before he lifts the corpse onto the bed, but the action is enough to cause him to begin coughing again. Thorns catch and tear his throat. His eyes fill with reactionary tears. He wonders about the state of his lungs. His throat and mouth are raw and bleeding. The taste of blood never leaves his mouth.

Once he finally ceases coughing, he wraps the blood and spit and plant residue in his mask and tucks it away next to the other one. He pulls out another fresh mask along with his scalpel. It's time for the next part in his design.

It's a surgery he's performed more times post-mortem than when he was an actual surgeon. It takes time, but it isn't too physically taxing, so he removes the lungs almost like he normally does. He only has one coughing fit during the surgery.

Hannibal brings the removed lungs to the ice chest he brought and left on the kitchen counter. He then returns to the bedroom to arrange the corpse and double-check he's left no evidence. It goes as expected, and Hannibal leaves the apartment as smoothly and quietly as a ghost.

Hannibal's energy is fading him, so he has to store the lungs and get some sleep before he can finish his design. After his nap and a small meal (it's become too painful to eat full meals), Hannibal takes his purchased bouquet of red roses and brings them to where he'd stored the lungs in his hidden basement. It takes him over two hours to weave the flowers into the lungs, but when he's finished, he's satisfied with the outcome. He wishes he had the strength to display this within the body, but he doesn't, and he won't allow himself to dwell on things he cannot achieve anymore.

It's nearly morning now, so Hannibal stores his flowered lungs and goes about his day as usual. He returns Franklyn's favor of politeness from earlier by referring him to another psychiatrist he believes will actually help him, ensuring Franklyn will have at least one stable aspect in his life once Hannibal is gone. Will is still in the hospital, and Hannibal is not risking stepping foot in any medical facility in case someone happens to correctly diagnose him. There is less light in his life without seeing Will, but it's a sacrifice he has to make.

It's odd living his life with an air of finality when no one else is.

Long after night falls, he drives down to a small state park near Wolf Trap and lays the lungs on an elevated group of rocks off the side of a busy trail. Hannibal takes a moment to relish in his design as he always does. The lungs rest unassumingly on the dark rocks. The roses are much darker than the light pink meat. Their thorny vines are woven in the soft flesh, and the plant really does look mightier than the lungs. It's no surprise Hannibal feels as horribly as he does. The moonlight illuminates his work beautifully, but Hannibal knows it will look better in the light of day. He closes his eyes and indulges in the small fantasy of Will seeing his creation and grinning in that rare but stunning way Hannibal has only seen him do three times. He allows the image to hang in his mind for a moment more before he makes his escape.

Hannibal has a spare car and many counterfeit license plates he switches on his spare car often. He typically uses this car for his….extracurricular activities. It's not one he'd like to drive. It's used, and the vents always rattle whenever the AC is on, but it serves its purpose, and for that Hannibal appreciates it. He parked the car at the nearest gas station to the trail. The place is rundown and rotting. Hannibal wouldn't even attempt to buy gas from this place, but there isn't a security camera in sight, and the clerk attending the store looks like he's seen enough to know not to ask questions and play dumb if questioned.

Hannibal gets into his spare car and begins his drive back to the property he stores it at. The night still feels young, and the dark sky feels like a protective blanket. His soul feels as if it's singing as he enjoys the serenity of the night and the satisfaction of a completed hunt. There is no doubt in his mind that this is his purpose.

Hannibal is only about ten minutes into his peaceful drive when his phone rings. He intends to let it ring and go to voicemail as an alibi to prove he was asleep, but when he glances at it and sees Will's name flashing on the screen, he doesn't hesitate to answer it. He won't deny the sense of worry that zips through him at wondering what Will could be calling about at this hour.

"Hello, Will."

"You sound awfully awake for," there's a slight pause, "3:43am."

It's been far too long since Hannibal has heard Will's voice, and he suddenly misses him even more. He hasn't seen Will since before he was admitted to the hospital for his encephalitis. Hannibal's heart feels like an aching hole in his chest.

Hannibal replies, "As do you." He hates how audible the smile in his voice is. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I am, actually. I've been asleep most of the time, but I woke up around midnight and couldn't go back to sleep. I, uh…I didn't think you'd pick up."

"I'll always answer for you, Will."

There's a ghost of an embarrassed chuckle on the other line. "And, uh, same for you too. I'll always pick up if you need me."

It shouldn't make Hannibal as elated as he feels. "Thank you." It's far too sincere for what Will told him.

"Are you…" Will falls silent.

"Am I what?"

"Are you okay?"

The question surprises him so thoroughly he blinks blankly at the road for a couple seconds. "Yes, of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"You just seem…off lately."

No one else has even noticed a thing outside his "cold". He isn't sure how to feel about Will knowing he isn't completely alright and then asking him about it out of a place of concern. It's a strange and unfamiliar sensation—being cared for and noticed like this—but it's utterly addicting. His heart flutters in his chest. He must know what Will sees, so he asks,

"How so?"

"Well…you know I feel like the thing with Alana was totally random." Will hesitates but eventually continues, "And you haven't come to see me." He says it quietly. Almost shyly. As if he thinks Hannibal might suddenly dislike him. "And I heard you referred a patient."

Hannibal can't explain to Will the reason for sleeping with Alana and avoiding him without revealing everything, so he deflects by smoothly answering, "Franklyn was far too invested in his relationship with me that it took away from his therapy."

Will doesn't speak for a few moments. "Do you still have that cold?"

Hannibal isn't sure what conclusions Will is making. He isn't sure if he's giving away anything when he speaks. Hannibal has no idea what Will could possibly be thinking. He never has to worry about this with anyone else. It's equally exciting and nerve-wracking. It's self-destructive to want Will's attention like this, but Hannibal doesn't have a lot left to lose. So he answers,

"Yes."

"Have you had a doctor check you out?"

"I am a doctor."

Will laughs something soft and quiet. "Yeah, smartass, I know you're a doctor, but maybe you should have a second opinion. Get whatever diagnosis you've given yourself a peer review. And don't deny that you haven't diagnosed yourself, because I know you."

Hannibal chuckles, feeling a bit like a chided spouse, and thinks it's nice to have someone truly wish for him to be alright. His heart completely belongs to Will. "Very well. Shall I come see you after my doctor's appointment then?" It's a lie. He won't see another doctor. He shouldn't visit Will either, but he's afraid if Will pleads for him to come, then he will.

Softly, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

"Then it's set. I will see you soon."

There's a pause, and Hannibal thinks Will hangs up, but then Will says, "I miss you."

Hannibal isn't quite sure how to reply. He isn't sure how to say he misses Will too, but he also misses Will every second they're not together, so he feels a bit off-put. It feels as if his heart is in his hand, and Will might notice Hannibal is offering it to him if he says the wrong thing.

Will hangs up as he hesitates.

~~~~

Hannibal's health takes a turn for the worse. Even if he wanted to visit Will, it's impossible now. Hannibal has a terrible fever and feels as if his lungs rattle with each inhale and exhale. It's as if he can feel the thorny vines squeezing his lungs. He can no longer sleep through the night. Breathing has become a laborious and painful process. He hardly leaves his room, and leaving the house is out of the question. Hannibal caught a look of himself in the bathroom mirror earlier that day, and he looks like the dead. Pale with sunken, dull eyes. The only difference between Hannibal and a corpse is the sweat on his brow from his fever and the heaving breaths he takes that move his entire chest.

His lips are chapped and bloody. The thorns have torn up the inside of his mouth and throat, and when he forces himself to eat, he can only manage a few bites. He supposes he's alright with dying when he can't even enjoy the last meals he's taking the time to prepare for himself.

Hannibal begins to finalize any loose ends he has, generally through letters to colleagues and referrals for his favorite patients. He surprises himself when he writes a letter to Chiyoh.

He can't realistically see everything off that he needs to, and that's just as well. He will continue to live as peacefully and routinely as he can. He tries to get dressed into something more casual than anything he's worn in public in a very long time to see Will, but he has a horrible coughing fit as he's trying to change shirts and lays down to soothe his body and ends up falling asleep for a couple hours instead. Three days pass in this terrible agony, and Hannibal hates himself for wishing for death sooner. It feels like giving up, and he's never been one to lie down and take it.

Both Hannibal's cell phone and home phone have been ringing nearly incessantly. People have noticed his absence, and he's managed to play it off as his "cold" turning out to be bronchitis. It's something he needs to stay home for, and it's something respiratory-related, so the coughing and bedrest are explained. He tells everyone he'll be back soon, but it's a lie. He's gotten a few visitors at his door that he's turned away by ignoring them and saying he was at the doctor or asleep when they came by.

He has a visitor now. The doorbell rings, but Hannibal doesn't move from his lounged position on his couch in front of the fireplace. He's unshaven, and his hair falls over his forehead and tickles his eyelids. He's wearing a button-down with most of the buttons undone and his most comfortable slacks. His body can't choose between feeling ice cold or melting hot. He's attempting to enjoy one of his few remaining favorite wine bottles, but it's difficult when each swallow is painful and tainted with the taste of his own blood.

The doorbell rings again, and Hannibal ignores it. He's done this a few times now and learned people don't continue ringing the doorbell or knocking on the door after about ten minutes. He easily waits out every person who wants to visit.

This visitor is persistent, however, and the doorbell rings again and not even half a minute later there's knocking. Hannibal sighs in annoyance, but his lungs seize, and he coughs something raw and wheezing. His abdomen is sore from all of his coughing, and his body has begun to become too exhausted to keep up longer bouts of coughing. His horrid, wheezing hacks die off quickly—not due to any improvement—but due to his body's inability to continue coughing. The knocking stops. And then,

"Hannibal! It's me! Open up. I know you're in there."

Will.

Like one of Will's well-trained strays, Hannibal is unquestioningly pushing himself out of his chair and walking towards the door. He pauses as he enters the foyer directly in front of the hallway leading to the door. He looks awful. Will is going to be repulsed. He can't be seen like this. Especially not by Will.

This is the last time you'll ever see him.

Will bangs on the door. "Hannibal! Open the door, or I'm coming in!"

That doesn't leave him with much of a choice, so Hannibal braces himself for Will's reaction to his appearance before unsteadily making his way to the door and opening it just enough, so he can peek out and see the object of his suffering.

The daylight is brighter than Hannibal is anticipating, so he blindly blinks into the sunlight, unable to see much of Will. Will is immediately pushing against the door, and Hannibal is about to shove it closed when one of Will's hands lands on his chest and pushes him backwards along with the door. Hannibal stumbles a few steps back, Will's hand still pressed against him, and he hears the door close shut as he's still blinking to adjust his vision. Will's hand is pressed firmly in the center of his chest, and Hannibal's shirt is unbuttoned enough that the majority of Will's palm touches his skin.

Will is frozen in place with his hand remaining on Hannibal, and he is a vision to behold. He's breathing a bit heavily, and his cheeks are tainted a light pink. His curls are wild and untamed just as he is. He is handsome and rugged, yet he possesses a beauty Hannibal is never quite prepared for. Will's eyes are glued to Hannibal's face, and obvious surprise and concern splash across his features. Their gazes are locked like this for several moments. Hannibal finds himself stuck in place, unwilling to break this moment, yet unsure whether he should. The only sound is Hannibal's ragged breathing. It somehow sounds worse like this, louder in the absence of everything else.

Will blinks. He stares at his hand on Hannibal's chest, and Hannibal feels Will's fingers twitch before he's pulling his hand back and shoving them both in the front pockets of his jeans. Will flicks his eyes to something behind Hannibal.

He says, "You look terrible." Will's gaze continues to flitter about, and his shoulders are tense. Hannibal is definitely feeling ill, because Will almost seems…guilty. And that makes no sense. How is Hannibal reading him all wrong?

"Your kind words are always touching," Hannibal retorts.

Will grabs the front of Hannibal's shirt with both hands, impossibly quick, and shoves him against the wall. Hannibal's lungs protest, and he has to take a few deep, steady breaths to prevent coughing all over Will. They're close enough Hannibal feels Will's warm breath fan across his face. A few centimeters closer, and Hannibal could kiss him. One of Will's hands comes to cup his face, and Hannibal's brain completely shuts off. All Hannibal knows in this moment is the steady puff of Will's breath, the warmth of his palm on his cheek, and the intensity of his gaze. Will's eyes are tumultuous—an ocean in a storm—unsure, yet swelling with anger. Will's thumb moves to Hannibal's lower lip and gently pulls it down. Hannibal's heart skips, and his breath hitches. Will's eyes flick down to his lip. Something angry and hurt lights Will's eyes and then he's moving away. The air is cold in Will's sudden vacancy of Hannibal's space.

"Will?" His voice sounds rough and shaken. Weak.

Will's back is facing him, and he slowly turns as he shakes his head. When he's finally facing Hannibal, it's with the startling realization that he's blinking back tears.

"I trusted you, Hannibal." He scoffs then runs his hands through his hair and fists his fingers in his curls and tugs.

"Will," Hannibal says gently and reaches out to soothe him. His brain feels as if it's spinning. He can't catch up with what's going on inside Will's beautiful mind.

"Don't," Will spits. Commands. The glare Will gives him makes Hannibal's heart stop.

Hannibal blinks. "Will, I'm not certain as to what's going on."

Will runs a hand over his face. Swallows. He refuses to meet Hannibal's eyes. "Your lip." Blue eyes lock with Hannibal's for a split second. "It's torn from the thorns."

It takes Hannibal far too long to process Will's words. And then it hits him like a bucket of ice water.

Will knows.

Will continues, "Jack got them to let me out of the hospital early to see the lungs." He fixes Hannibal with a steely, firm look as he adds, "And to see the body."

"I see," Hannibal replies. "Have you come to arrest me? Kill me?"

Will flicks a quick, cold look over Hannibal. "What would be the point?"

A delicious thrill strikes through Hannibal at Will's apathy. His darkness. "Will—"

Will puts a hand up and interrupts, "I just came here to see if I was right." He sounds disappointed and betrayed when he quietly adds, "Guess I was." He holds Hannibal's gaze for a moment more before rushing out the door. It slams behind him, and the sound reverberates through Hannibal's house like a church bell during a funeral.

~~~~

It's as if Will's straightforward rejection is the final nail in the coffin. Hannibal had taken a shower after Will left. He found himself failing to stifle back sobs. It only exasperated his lungs, so he ended up crying and choking in the shower like some weak little thing left outside to die. It's exactly how he felt. But crying was cathartic, and a strange tranquility fell over him after his shower.

He falls into a restless sleep, and when he wakes up, he knows he barely has any time left. His mind feels hazy and sluggish, as if he's high or drunk or some strange combination of both. His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and he can't be bothered to wipe it off. Everything outside of the immediate feel of his silk sheets on his naked skin feels far away and dull. It feels as if the world is shrinking since his perception of it becomes smaller and smaller with each passing minute. All his existence becomes is feverishly tossing and turning in bed, each breath he takes rattling his entire body. He's dehydrated, and his dry mouth is filled with the metallic tang of his own blood.

His only solace is the final indulgence he's allowed himself. One of Will's shirts. It's a plain white t-shirt he'd stolen the night he went to kill Will and failed. It still smells of him, and Hannibal buries his face into it now, painfully taking in deep breaths to fill himself with Will's scent. It's pathetic, but the last thing he wants to know of this world is Will, even if he only gets one small, stolen piece of him.

Hannibal is drifting in that odd space between dreaming and waking, and he can't trust his senses to tell him what's truly happening. He thinks he hears a distant banging, and another sound that reminds him of Will's voice. He knows it must be because of the way he's pressing his face into Will's shirt. Everything is tainted with Will now. Then he hears something rhythmic. It becomes louder. It sounds quite a lot like someone is running up his stairs. Hannibal doesn't have the energy to move nor care. His eyes remain closed, and his face remains buried in Will's shirt.

"Hannibal! Hannibal!"

Well, now he certainly must be dreaming if he hears Will calling his name.

"Hanni–"

The world stills momentarily.

A breathless, desperate, "Oh my god. No. No, no, no. Hannibal."

It feels as if the Earth is shifting. It might also simply be the mattress dipping beside him.

"Hannibal. Hannibal! Oh, god."

Something warm and solid pulls his face away from Will's shirt. A low whine of protest escapes Hannibal, but it's all he can muster.

A soft, euphoric sound, then, "You're alive!" A breathless laugh. "You're alive."

Hannibal can distinctively feel two warm, firm hands tilt his face upwards. The movement is a tad too sudden, and his breath is tangled with the thorny flowers lining his throat, and he chokes. Then he's being moved. Laid down on his back. Head tilted to be completely straight. The air flows through him easier. He wants Will's shirt back.

"Hannibal. Hannibal, look at me. Please." The hands are on his face again, delicately caressing his cheeks. "Please," the voice that sounds too much like Will's begs.

The only warning Hannibal receives is a puff of warm air against his face before soft, plush lips press gently against his. They don't stop. They kiss him desperately, incessantly, but they remain gentle. Always so, so gentle. It's a shame Hannibal doesn't have the energy to kiss back.

"H-Hannibal, please. I…fuck." More kisses. "Please, please. I…I love you too, okay? Do you hear me? I love you too. I love you too."

The kisses are everywhere now. They ghost across his nose, his cheekbones, his eyebrows. Those gentle lips kiss every inch of his face. The warm hands brush his hair from his forehead and more kisses are placed there. He's held so reverently. So cherished. When he feels warm salty tears drip onto his face, he can only compare it to a baptism, because something powerful has shifted. Something miraculous has occurred. The tears he is being gifted with are transforming him; he is reborn. Hannibal's chest still rattles when he intakes a deeper breath, and his eyes reluctantly flutter open.

Will is above him. Tears run down his face, and fear and desperation are uncontrollable fires in his eyes. Hannibal has never been looked at like this before. So deeply. So cared for.

So loved.

Something in his airway shifts. Perhaps nothing but a petal falling, or perhaps something else he's unwilling to name because he thinks a little hope will truly be the end of him, but he can breathe a little better now. It's the slightest bit less painful when he inhales to murmur,

"Will."