I woke up to something warm.
Not metaphorically, which is a rare flavor for me to admit—just literally. A real, tangible heat pressed faintly against my side, like someone had laid a sunbeam across my ribs and forgot to take it back before dawn. My eyes adjusted slowly to the dusty morning light filtering through the broken windows of the cram school. And there she was.
Kiss-shot Acerola-orion Heart-under-blade.
Curled faintly against me. Not clutching or clinging, nothing that forward. Just… resting. One arm lightly draped across my chest, her forehead barely brushing my shoulder. Her breathing was steady. Rhythmic. Almost mortal. She looked like something ancient pretending to nap—like a vampire-shaped housecat.
I didn't dare move.
I wasn't afraid of waking her up, not exactly. But there was something delicate about the moment. Something too real. Like pulling back might pop the bubble we'd both unconsciously agreed to sit inside for the night.
A part of me—a louder part, let's be honest—wanted to savor this. Wanted to believe she'd leaned into me first, like some residual emotion from our conversation had carried over into the sleep-state. That maybe, just maybe, the connection wasn't one-sided. That maybe the affection was mutual.
The other part of me?
Already bracing for the recoil.
And, right on cue—like clockwork wound by her pride—she stirred. Her eyelids twitched. Her fingers tensed. And then she pulled away, smooth and silent, as if the moment hadn't happened at all.
The way she'd retreat the second anything felt too human. She didn't snap or scold, didn't shoot me a warning glare. But she shifted a full inch away and turned her body so only her back faced me now. As if a few inches of cold air could restore her dignity.
"…You snore," she muttered after a moment. Soft. Dry.
I didn't. She knew that. But I let it hang in the air anyway, like it was her version of a good morning.
"Apologies, milady. I'll try to be more considerate in my next unconscious state."
Her back rose and fell in a slow breath. "Do not call me that."
"Snore machine?"
"…The other thing."
She didn't sound angry. Just tired. Or maybe pretending to be.
Still, even with her turned away, her presence lingered like phantom heat against my side. And it wasn't just warmth. It was trust. Or the beginning of it.
And I wasn't about to waste it.
—————————————————-
"Not all wards are warnings. Some are invitations written in a dead language."
The quiet in the cram school was different now.
Less like silence. More like something holding its breath.
I got up slowly, careful not to shift the air too much. Kiss-shot didn't react, but I could feel her awareness track me—eyes closed, still, but listening.
The threads of the veil still held. I'd made sure. Reinforced the edges in my sleep. Or maybe the Grimoire had done it for me. Hard to tell these days. But something else itched at the back of my mind.
A wrong note. A thread pulled out of place.
So I followed it.
Down the back corridor. Past the half-collapsed stairs. Through the door with the sigil I hadn't seen before.
And finally in a corner of the room the sigil etched behind the old filing cabinet hummed like it had been waiting to be noticed. Not glowing. Not whispering. Just present. The kind of presence that didn't need flair to prove its weight.
I knew that feeling.
Knew him.
I didn't have to guess who carved it.
Meme Oshino.
The man who walked between lines in other people's stories and called it balance. The man who could offer you salvation with one hand and a curse with the other—and still somehow convince you both were gifts.
I ran a finger just beside the edge of the ward.
Didn't touch it.
Didn't need to.
The script was familiar. Not in language—but in intention. A cloaking boundary. The kind that didn't just hide something—it anchored it. To a place. To a plan.
"Message," I muttered.
"Trap," a voice said behind me.
Kiss-shot.
She was barefoot. Calm. The kind of calm that predators wear when they know they're still the most dangerous thing in the room.
"Actually," I said, still staring at the sigil, "it's from an old friend."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "You know who set it."
"Yeah," I said. "Meme Oshino. Professional meddler. Ghost of a man who acts like he's never had skin in the game… but always shows up exactly when it's interesting."
She watched me now—not the sigil.
"And you've met him before?"
"Not in this life."
That earned a pause.
She knew what I meant.
I could see it in the flicker of her expression. That subtle recognition that I was, somehow, always two steps ahead of the script. Not luck. Not power. Just knowledge I shouldn't have.
"Meme knows we're here," I continued. "Which means he wants us here. This place—the cram school—it wasn't just abandoned. It was preloaded. A sandbox he filled with safety and surveillance."
Kiss-shot tilted her head. "You trust him?"
"Not remotely."
"But you're not worried."
"I'm calculating."
Another beat.
Then she said, "So we stay?"
"For now," I said. "He's watching. Maybe testing. But he's not trying to hurt us yet."
"Yet," she repeated.
I turned to her. "He's the kind of man who lets you walk into a trap and then offers you tea while explaining how to escape. Just don't drink it."
Her gaze lingered on me a little longer.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just processing.
Then she nodded.
Just once.
I looked at the sigil again—just long enough to let it feel seen.
Then I smiled, low and crooked.
"I know how your story ends, Meme."
And just loud enough for the ward to hear it, I added:
"Try not to bore me."
Then we left.
And behind us, the wall stayed quiet.
But I swear the air felt… amused.
—————————————————-
"Some games aren't meant to be won. Just played until someone folds."
The walk back to the main room was quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just… recalibrated. Like the air had accepted we weren't leaving after all—but that something was still taking notes.
Kiss-shot didn't speak.
Neither did I.
There was something sacred about silence when it's shared between two people who know. Not guess. Not assume. Know. And right now, we both understood that something had shifted.
Meme's sigil hadn't broken the veil.
It had woven into it.
Like someone adding a second melody to a song only I could hear. Harmonious, but not innocent.
Kiss-shot drifted toward the windowsill, eyes distant, her steps light and slow—like she was listening to the floor rather than walking across it. She looked calmer now, but that didn't mean she wasn't calculating.
I dropped back into the chair. Lazy. Careless. Just for show.
She turned her head slightly, studying me—not like prey, not like a partner, but like a riddle that kept changing its own clues.
"You expected this," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"I expected something," I said. "Didn't think he'd leave a business card, but… it tracks."
She folded her arms. "You always speak like you've seen the future."
I didn't respond.
Because that would've been too close to telling the truth.
When the silence stretched just long enough to mean something, she added, "But I've lived long enough to know—seeingthe future and knowing it aren't the same."
I met her gaze. Even. Calm.
"You think I'm guessing?"
"I think," she said slowly, "that you're not surprised by things you shouldn't know about."
Her voice wasn't accusing.
It was curious.
Dangerously so.
"I told you," I said, voice quiet, "I read between lines."
She narrowed her eyes. "No one reads this fast."
"Maybe the story wants to be read."
"Or maybe," she said, stepping closer now, "you've been here longer than you pretend."
I didn't answer.
Not because I couldn't.
Because I shouldn't.
"Does it matter?" I asked.
She studied me.
Not for the first time.
But deeper.
Sharper.
Like she was trying to carve a shape from my contradictions.
"Only if you turn out to be the thing I should've feared more than death."
I stood up, slow.
Closed the space between us.
But not too far.
Just close enough that my words didn't need to travel.
"I'm not the future," I said. "I'm just what happens when someone breaks the sequence."
She didn't blink.
Didn't back away.
"Then we'd better rewrite it properly."
And the way she said we?
That was the part that scared me.
—————————————————-
"Some people fight monsters. Some people offer them contracts."
The night outside the cram school didn't creak or growl. It waited.
Like it knew something was about to be unstitched.
I stood in the doorway for a few seconds longer than I needed to. Just enough to feel her eyes on my back. Just enough to let the weight of it settle before I peeled it off like a coat I didn't deserve to keep.
"I'll be back before dawn," I said.
"You always say that," she replied.
"And so far, I haven't been wrong."
That earned me silence. But not the cold kind. The kind that implies trust and the threat of consequence. The kind that says: If you die, I'll kill you.
Fair.
I didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
The veil around the building still hummed faintly—woven tighter now, reinforced with both subtle magic and good old-fashioned paranoia. And yet…
I felt it.
The disturbance.
A shape behind the curtain of safety. Not breaching. Just pressing. Like a ghost testing glass.
Not a hunter.
Not yet.
This was something else.
I turned down the alley, walking fast but not rushed, each footfall light on the pavement. The air was sharp—thinner than usual, like I'd climbed several flights of stairs without realizing.
I was headed for Dramaturgy.
Tall. Logical. Vampire. All muscle.
He'd be the easiest to find—and maybe the only one arrogant enough to let me take a limb without calling in the rest of his little sermon squad.
I didn't fear him.
Not in the way mortals fear pain.
I feared the plan around him.
Because if Oshino Meme had structured this like I remembered, then this wasn't about raw strength.
It was about pacing.
A show.
Rounds.
And this?
This was my audition.
I let my hand drift down to the Grimoire sigil on my wrist. It pulsed once. Not warning. Not readiness.
Just acknowledgment.
Let's see if Dramaturgy bleeds like the movies.
———————————————————-
POV: Kiss-shot's
"There are predators in the world who wear politeness like a priest wears a robe—both sacred and stained."
I didn't like it when he left.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I wasn't sure what I'd do if he didn't come back.
I sat on the edge of the desk for a long time after he vanished. The air had cooled, but the place he last stood still felt warm.
His presence always lingered.
It was annoying.
And worse—it was comforting.
My fingers curled around the edge of the desk until they ached.
It wasn't the pain of weakness.
It was restraint.
I had my arms back. Power had begun to trickle in again like dew returning to parched ground. But the biggest piece—the one that beat and bled and named me a god—was still missing.
My heart.
And I didn't know who had it.
But I had suspicions.
That's when I felt it.
Not Lucien.
The other.
The veil didn't break. That's what made it worse. It welcomed him. Let him in like he belonged.
I stood, slow and silent, as if rising into old bones.
The door at the far end of the hallway creaked open like it had been waiting.
And there he was.
Oshino Meme.
Still wearing that awful yellow shirt. Still smiling like he was apologizing for a murder he hadn't committed yet.
"Evening," he said, stepping inside like the floor owed him something.
My eyes narrowed.
"You weren't invited."
"I never need to be," he replied casually. "Not when I'm the one who chose the walls."
The sigils.
The veil.
The hiding place.
Of course.
Lucien hadn't said it outright.
But he knew.
"You're playing a dangerous game," I said.
Oshino didn't flinch. He walked along the wall, glancing at the graffiti like it might answer him.
"Funny thing about danger," he said. "It's all about which side of the coin you're flipping."
I didn't attack.
Not because I couldn't.
Because I didn't understand why he was here yet.
And men like him?
They never wasted a move.
"What do you want?" I asked.
He turned, just slightly, hands in his coat pockets.
"To talk."
"About what?"
"About what comes after," he said. "After he gets your next limb. After the last hunter falls. After the story you're in runs out of pages."
"You think you'll still be standing?"
He shrugged.
"I think I'll be necessary."
That made me pause.
Because the worst kind of enemy isn't the one who wants to kill you.
It's the one who wants to help.
On his terms.
———————————————-
Lucien's POV
The bell over the door didn't chime when I stepped into the bookstore.
Figures. Warded.
Old magic—subtle and sturdy. Like everything about the place. Dust clung to the air like history afraid to move on. The walls were lined with shelves that didn't creak, didn't sag—just stood upright like they had something to prove.
And in the back, seated behind a counter built from stacked dictionaries?
Dramaturgy.
He was taller than I remembered from the film. Not in a "wow, that's impressive" way. In a "how did something that big sit still so quietly" way. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, glasses perched delicately on a face that looked carved from stone and forgotten myth.
He turned a page in a book he wasn't pretending to read.
"You found me," he said, voice deep. Smooth. Measured.
"You weren't hiding," I replied.
His eyes flicked up. Not curious. Just... taking inventory.
"You smell like her."
I let the silence follow that.
Then I pulled down my collar—just enough to show the twin bite marks still healing on my neck.
Not a declaration.
A fact.
Recognition flickered in his gaze. Barely a twitch. But enough.
"I see," he said.
"Do you?" I asked.
He closed the book. Leather-bound. No title.
"You're not her spawn."
"No."
"Not her lover."
"Depends on who you ask."
He tilted his head.
"You're stalling."
"I'm negotiating."
He paused at that. Leaned back slightly in his chair, like it might help him see the angle I was playing.
"You want her leg," he said. Not a question.
"I want it intact."
"And you think I have it."
I didn't answer.
Just waited.
He reached beneath the counter. Not fast. Not threatening. Just calm.
He placed a small, black lacquer box on the surface.
Didn't open it.
Didn't need to.
The pressure it gave off was familiar.
Like a heartbeat buried in concrete.
"You've come to threaten me?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I came to give you an option."
He arched a brow.
"Go on."
"You give me the leg, unbroken. I walk away. You keep your reputation, your face, and your spine."
"And if I refuse?"
I smiled.
Lazy. Crooked.
"If you refuse, I make sure the next person who walks into this bookstore does so without a shadow."
Dramaturgy went still.
Perfectly still.
Not out of fear.
Out of respect.
Because full vampires don't scare easy—but they do recognize danger when it stops playing coy.
He tapped the box once with his knuckle. A hollow sound.
"She's not what she was," he said. "That heart missing? It matters."
"She's recovering," I said. "And when she's done, you won't be able to blink fast enough."
"Which is why I kept it safe," he said. "Not for leverage. For survival."
I stepped closer. Just one pace.
"You kept it for leverage," I corrected. "Because you knew this day would come. And now you want to see what kind of man she's chosen to bleed for."
"And what do you think I see?"
I leaned in. Close enough that the temperature dipped around us.
"Someone who should make the right decision while he still has fingers to turn the key."
Dramaturgy didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
But after a moment, he pushed the box forward.
"I assume you'll tell her you fought for it," he said.
I closed my hand over the box. Cool. Heavy. Humming with residual power.
"I don't lie to her."
He studied me. Long. Thoughtful.
"Pity," he said.
And I walked out with one of her legs in a box and no blood on my hands.
This time
———————————————————
Kiss Shot's POV
He wasn't seated. That would've made him seem too comfortable. And he wasn't looming either. Men like Oshino Meme didn't loom.
They occupied.
Casually. Purposefully. Like chess pieces that already knew where the checkmate was, but took their time getting there.
"I don't need another cryptic sermon," I said, voice low.
"I'm not offering one," he said. "Just some perspective."
"That's worse."
He smiled at that. Didn't deny it.
The veil held around us like a stubborn truth. It pulsed gently—not disturbed, not stressed. It wanted him here. Or rather, it didn't mind him. Which was almost more insulting than letting him break in.
He walked to the edge of the window, peering out like there was something fascinating about shadows on asphalt.
"He's bold," he said.
"Lucien?"
Oshino didn't answer directly. Of course he didn't.
"Bringing you here, hiding you in plain sight, folding you into a space where gods shouldn't sleep."
"You made this place."
"And he made it dangerous."
He turned. Leaned back against the window sill, arms crossed loosely over that awful jacket that looked like it had survived both a house fire and a thrift sale.
"You're recovering," he said. "But not fully. And that boy... he's not pacing himself."
"He's not yours to manage."
"No," Oshino said, and there was something almost respectful in it. "That's the problem."
We stared at each other for a moment longer. No power flared. No magic stirred. But the tension in the room wasn't spiritual—it was philosophical.
He saw the world in systems.
I was a contradiction to them.
And Lucien? He was something else entirely.
"He's unpredictable," I said. "That's his advantage."
"Or his liability," Oshino replied.
I stepped forward, slow.
Measured.
"You think I can't tell when someone's trying to steer me?"
"Not steering," he said. "Just making sure you know the edge of the cliff before you run."
"I've jumped off worse."
"And you didn't land alone."
That stopped me cold.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was accurate.
I narrowed my eyes. "You don't know him."
"I know his type," Oshino said. "The kind who rewrites stories not because he wants to save anyone—but because he's terrified of being ordinary."
The air thickened.
That wasn't a threat.
That was a surgeon finding the nerve.
And touching it.
"Get out," I said.
He didn't move.
Just pushed off the wall and walked to the door.
But before stepping through it, he paused.
"You're right to trust him," he said. "But make sure you trust yourself more."
The door clicked shut behind him.
And I was alone again.
But not really.
His words stayed behind like dust on a blade.
I didn't sit down.
Didn't sigh.
I just turned my gaze toward the hallway Lucien would walk through when he came back.
And told myself—
If he falls?
I won't.
I'll catch him.
Even if he never asks me.
—————————————————-
The veil shimmered as I stepped through it.
Soft, like a curtain catching wind. But behind that softness was a weight. A pressure. One I hadn't felt before—not like this.
She felt it too.
Kiss-shot looked up from where she sat—same desk, same half-shadowed light curling across her face—but her eyes…
They weren't curious.
They were waiting.
I didn't say a word.
Didn't need to.
The box in my hands said enough.
She didn't move, not at first. Just stared at it. At me. At the invisible line I'd crossed since I left.
There was something unspoken between us now. A new layer. Not trust. Not yet. But something adjacent. Like the beginning of a handshake that ends in a knife fight or a kiss, depending on how the night unfolds.
I walked toward her slowly. Not dragging it out. Not posturing. Just… deliberate.
When I stopped, I didn't speak.
I just held the box out.
No flourish.
No flair.
Just the simplest form of offering.
Her hand rose slowly—wrist relaxed, fingers outstretched like a command without words.
And I placed it in her palm.
The moment she touched it, the air tightened.
Power flared—brief, sharp, instinctive. Her fingers twitched around the lid. Not in hunger. In recognition.
The hum of it matched her breath. Like it had been tuned to her frequency and sealed away like an artifact waiting to come home.
Still, she didn't open it.
She didn't need to.
"I didn't fight him," I said. Voice low. Honest.
Her eyes flicked to mine. Sharp.
I shrugged slightly. "Didn't have to."
"And yet you look," she paused, tilting her head, "a little less alive."
"Negotiation takes a different kind of blood," I said.
She studied me for a moment longer, then opened the box.
The leg inside was pale. Elegant. Impossibly perfect, despite how long it had been gone. It didn't look dead. It looked paused.
Like it had just been waiting for permission to rejoin her.
She stared at it.
Not with hunger.
With something closer to grief.
Or maybe... envy.
Then she reached down, touched it with her fingertips—and the room shifted.
There was no scream.
No dramatic sound effect.
Just a sound like a candle catching.
And she changed.
Her body twisted slightly—posture straightening, arms bracing, jaw tensing as the energy sank into her skin like it had always belonged. Her bones cracked once. Twice. Her torso stretched, subtle but unmistakable.
Hair grew longer.
Her legs—both of them now—touched the ground.
Kiss-shot looked… sixteen.
Still fragile in a way glass can be fragile. But sharper. Taller. More filled in.
And her eyes?
Wiser.
Tired.
Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at for too long.
She stood fully, flexed both legs, and for the first time since I met her—
She towered over me.
Only slightly.
But enough to notice.
Enough to feel it.
"You're changing," I said.
"So are you."
She stepped closer, box forgotten on the ground.
I didn't back away.
"Was it hard?" she asked. "Facing him?"
"Harder than I expected."
"But not for the reasons you thought."
"No," I said. "Not at all."
Silence again.
Not the sharp kind.
The slow, unfolding kind.
She tilted her head like she was going to say something else—but then stopped.
Instead, she looked down at her new leg.
Flexed it again.
Then, without looking at me:
"I was worried you wouldn't come back."
I blinked.
"Worried I wouldn't make it?"
"No," she said. "Worried I wouldn't matter enough for you to try."
That hit harder than it should've.
But I didn't show it.
I stepped forward until we were eye to eye again.
And I said, "You matter more than the ending I came here knowing."
Her breath caught.
Just slightly.
Then she exhaled. Long. Quiet.
And for once—
She didn't argue.
We stood there for a while.
Not saying anything.
Not needing to.
She was taller now. Stronger. The air around her had changed—denser, more commanding. But she didn't wear it like armor. She wore it like memory.
"I remember this age," she murmured. Her voice had a deeper timbre now. Less lilt. More weight. "I was in love with a poet. Briefly."
"What happened to him?"
"He wrote a sonnet about my eyes. Then tried to trap me in an urn."
"Romance is dead."
"Not before I made sure he was."
That got a smile out of me. Small. Tired. Real.
She looked down at me again—barely, but enough to notice—and something in her expression softened in a way I wasn't used to seeing.
It wasn't pity.
It wasn't amusement.
It was… consideration.
"Do you know what this means?" she asked, motioning to her new form. Her reclaimed strength. "What I'll be capable of soon?"
"Yeah," I said.
"And you're still here."
"I told you," I said. "You matter more than the ending."
She stepped even closer.
One hand rose—not threatening, not demanding. Just rising like the moon. Her fingers brushed the edge of my collar, a soft pull, just enough to see the bite again.
A reminder. A bond.
"This is permanent, you know," she said.
"So am I."
Her eyes searched mine. Not looking for lies. Looking for limits.
She didn't find any.
"I don't know what we're becoming," she said, finally.
I shrugged. "No one ever does. That's what makes it worth watching."
And just like that—
The moment passed.
But the change?
It stayed.
And so did we.
Side by side.
Not quite savior and monster.
Not quite lovers. Not yet at least…
But something sharp and sacred in between.
A new kind of mythology.
Written in silence.
And sealed in blood.
———————————————————
The room hadn't cooled.
If anything, it felt warmer now. Not the kind of warmth you noticed in the air—but the kind that crawled under your skin and stayed there, like the first breath after holding one too long.
She was standing in front of me.
Taller. Sleeker. Stronger. The kind of beauty that didn't ask for acknowledgment—it just took up space and left no room for anything else.
Her new form was… arresting.
Not just in the obvious ways—though, yeah, my eyes lingered more than they should have. The way her shirt clung a little tighter now. The shape of her waist, more defined. The elegant slope of her neck, the way her limbs moved like every joint had just been rewritten by poetry and physics in a shared language.
But it was more than that.
There was presence to her now. A pull. A gravity.
And I felt it in my ribs.
In the places people don't write about in textbooks because they don't have words for want that isn't just lust or longing—but something in between. Something dangerous.
I didn't look away.
I couldn't.
And she noticed.
Of course she did.
Her gaze slid over me like candlelight: slow, curious, unflinching. No coyness. No mockery. Just… awareness.
"You're staring," she said.
Not accusatory.
Not playful.
Just fact.
I swallowed something thick in my throat—ego, maybe.
"Hard not to," I said. "You look like the part of a dream people never talk about."
Her brow arched.
"The inappropriate part?"
"The honest part."
She stepped closer. Barefoot still. Her movements whisper-soft, but every inch deliberate.
"Be careful," she said, voice low. "Flattery from you sounds a lot like foreplay."
"Who said it isn't?"
The air sharpened.
Not with threat.
With interest.
And if she was testing me before, now?
Now she was considering the outcome.
I didn't flinch.
Didn't smirk.
I just let the truth sit between us, warm and dangerous.
"Do you want me to stop?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
But she didn't step back either.
Instead, her hand lifted again—slow, almost reverent—and her knuckles brushed lightly against my jaw. Not a caress. A measure. Like she was taking inventory of how human I still felt beneath the skin.
"I haven't decided what you are yet," she whispered.
"Let me help you figure it out."
That got a reaction.
Not laughter. Not shock.
A slow inhale.
Like the moment itself had just leaned in closer.
And then—
She smiled.
Small.
Sharp.
A smile not made for kindness, but for invitation.
"I'll let you
Her smile was still lingering when she turned away—but not all the way.
Just enough to let her hair fall across her shoulder in a way that made me wonder if she knew exactly what it looked like. Like a curtain pulled between a temptation and a dare.
I stayed still for a beat.
Then took a step forward.
Just one.
Not enough to close the space.
Just enough to remind her it could be closed.
"You always let your enemies get this close?" I asked lightly, eyes trailing from the curve of her jaw to the line of her spine beneath the fabric.
She didn't turn around.
"You're not my enemy," she said.
"No?"
"Enemies don't hesitate before they touch you."
I tilted my head. Let the silence linger for half a breath too long.
"Who said I'm hesitating?"
That made her pause.
She glanced over her shoulder—not fully, just a sideways sliver of golden eye beneath those lashes. Something about the look was half command, half invitation.
"You think you're clever," she murmured.
I let myself smirk this time. Properly. The kind that made people assume I knew more than I did—and sometimes, they were right.
"Not clever," I said. "Just observant."
She turned then. Not fast. But fully.
Her eyes locked onto mine like she was waiting to see what I'd do with the attention I was so obviously craving.
"You flirt like someone who's out of options."
I shrugged. "I flirt like someone who knows the house is already on fire. Might as well dance in the heat."
That drew a sound from her—soft, dry, but undeniably a laugh.
It felt like stealing lightning and getting away with it.
Her gaze dropped for a second. Just enough to scan me—my hands, my mouth, my posture.
"You're dangerous," she said.
"Only if you're flammable."
She stepped closer.
This time she was the one to close the space.
Her fingers ghosted over my collarbone—barely there, like a painter deciding where to make the first stroke.
"You have no idea what you're playing with."
I leaned in, breath brushing her ear.
"That's the point," I whispered. "If I did, it'd be too easy."
She didn't push me away.
She didn't lean in, either.
She just stood there
—watching me the way a lion watches a flame. Not threatened. Not curious. Just… interested. Like she was waiting to see if I'd keep burning or turn to smoke.
"I've broken men for less," she said.
"Maybe I'm here to see what it takes."
Her touch lingered. Not gripping, not claiming. Just resting there, on the edge of me—like a decision she hadn't made yet.
"You think this is a game," she said.
"No," I murmured. "I think it's a gamble."
"And what do you win if you survive?"
I met her gaze. Calm. Steady.
"You."
The word landed like a match hitting oil.
Not loud.
But undeniable.
And for a second—just one—I saw something in her expression that didn't belong to the vampire. Or the legend. Or the immortal god who once shattered continents just to prove she could.
I saw the girl.
The one who remembered what it was like to be wanted before being feared.
She looked away first.
Not out of weakness.
Out of self-defense.
"You shouldn't say things like that," she said.
"I know."
"Then why do you?"
I smiled, slow. Wicked. Unapologetic.
"Because every time I do… you don't tell me to stop."
That made her blink.
And maybe—just maybe—waver.
But she recovered fast, slipping past me like moonlight spilling across tile. Her voice trailing behind her like perfume soaked in centuries of denial.
"Keep flirting like that," she said, "and I might forget not to bite you again."
I watched her walk back toward the window.
And said—just loud enough for her to hear:
"Who said I'd stop you?"
She didn't turn around.
But her smile?
I saw it reflected in the glass.