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You’re convinced that Sylus has a bomb fetish.
Twice now he has dressed you up in rubies and silk, and twice now the evening has ended with you covered in dust and rubble. Some might consider that a disaster. Sylus, however, believed his plans went off without a hitch— even called you his lucky charm.
Now, you’re in his study, staring daggers into the back of his head as he strips off his jacket and lays it neatly on an oversized ottoman. He turns, undoing the top button at his collar, and the roaring fireplace at his back limns him in a ruddy gold.
“Will that be all?” you ask, ready to be done. You’re sore and dirty and itching to take your hair down. The sooner he dismisses you, the better.
Why you ever promised to work with him in exchange for his protection, you’ll never understand. The N109 Zone is a hellscape, but perhaps your risk calculus was off. Perhaps you’d be fine on your own.
After tonight’s festivities, you’re seriously considering going at it alone.
Sylus stalks over to you, too tall and too nonchalant, and you immediately sense that he’s up to something. “The night doesn’t have to end here, kitten,” he says and brushes the backs of his knuckles along your jaw, touch so light you barely feel it. But his gaze… he doesn’t even try to hide how it jumps down your body, snagging on your lips, your throat, the swell of your breasts beneath the red silk of the gown he gifted you. “We could have so much fun together, you know.”
“Fun,” you scoff, jerking your head away from his wandering fingers. He curls them into a loose fist and drops his arm back to his side. “What, like blowing up another high-rise?”
“Hardly.”
You cross your arms. “An unsuspecting cafe, then.”
He cracks a genuine smile at that. “What I have in mind involves fewer bombs.” He circles around you as he speaks, passing close enough to whisper, “And clothes,” against your ear.
Your cheeks heat, but you force out a disgusted laugh and level a sharp glare at him. “Please. As if I could ever be attracted to you.”
His nostrils flare, and then he’s on you, hand gripping your throat as he walks you backward and pins you against the built-in bookshelf. “Lie to yourself all you want, sweetie. But do not ever lie to me.”
You scrabble for purchase, eventually grabbing onto his forearm and trying to pry his hand away, but it’s useless. His grip is iron.
“Now, I’m going to ask this exactly once, and I expect an honest answer.” He tilts his chin down, and his right eye glows that corrupting, sickly shade of red as the power of his Aether Core calls out to your own. “Do you desire me?”
He’s not digging into your mind yet, but the threat is there. If you were braver, maybe you wouldn’t fear the confusing tangle of memories he could unlock. But you’re not. You’re a coward. “Yes,” you admit on a gasp, hating the truth of the word, but hating even more that his resulting grin brings you satisfaction.
His touch turns gentle, and he slides his hand down your neck, thumb lingering against the hollow of your throat and making your pulse race. You suppress the urge to swat it away and instead focus on keeping your breaths even until, finally, he relents.
Sylus shifts his weight and grabs onto a shelf above your head, features soft in a way that’s at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes. “And would you like to have me?” he asks.
Yes—
No.
You clench your teeth.
You don’t know, and that infuriates you.
He infuriates you— this man with a secret base of operations and more money than God. This man who treats you to lavish evenings and then drops an entire goddamn building on your head. This man who tells you to cut off your own hand one day and then teaches you how to fight the next.
He is fickle and passionate and cunning and not at all what he seems.
And yes, you realize, horrified— you want him.
So you snarl and answer him with a kiss, surging up to capture his mouth with yours, desperate to know how well your bodies fit together, if he’s as good a fuck as you suspect he is. You need the answer more than you need your dignity, and there’s only one way to find out.
Sylus groans and hauls you against him with ease, one hand at your hip as the other scoops under your thigh to guide your legs around his waist, and you kiss him hungrily, wrathfully— and God, you want to punish him for being right about you.
On the other side of the room, the doors slam closed, oak panels rattling as Sylus’s Evol activates the locks.
He deposits you on one of the massive couches before drawing back, and the only reason you don’t protest is because of the way his clever fingers slide down your leg, the way he so carefully removes your heels one at a time.
And then his hands are pushing back up your leg, following the slit in your gown until those same fingers curl under the top of your stocking. He rolls it down with such reverence that it leaves you breathless.
When he repeats the action with the other leg, you whine out a Hurry up, and he laughs, placing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee. Then he uses his Evol to reposition you on his lap so that your thighs bracket his hips.
As he touches his lips to the underside of your jaw, he says, “I don’t plan to deny you often, pet, but consider this one such occasion.”
And if you didn’t want to fuck him so badly, you’d strangle him on the spot just to wipe that smug grin off his face.
But you’re aching to feel his skin against yours, so you start in on his shirt, loosening one button after another until you can push the offending garment over his shoulders. He lets you, seemingly amused by your sense of urgency. Once you’ve stripped him of his undershirt as well, you go for his belt, and that’s when he intervenes, seizing your wrists before he pointedly drapes your arms back around his neck.
“My turn,” he says, lifting a brow as his palms cover your ribs. Then it’s like static is crawling over your skin, his Evol almost ticklish while it devours your gown—and everything beneath—until all you’re wearing are the gems he adorned you with at the start of the evening, ears and wrist and neck dripping with his signature shade of red.
You frown, glaring at him. “I liked that dress.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, and then his mouth is on yours again, a hand at your jaw so that he can angle your head to his liking as he cups you against him and then lays you back down.
While his hands are occupied, you scrabble with his belt and zipper, and then he helps you shove his pants over his hips. You palm him, and your mouth goes dry at the sheer weight of his cock. And when you tear your lips away from his and hazard a glance between your bodies, your eyes go wide.
“Don’t lose your nerve now, kitten.” He’s smirking at you, but there’s something… fragile about it.
You try to close your fingers around him and discover that you can’t. “Sylus, you’re— it’s—”
“Careful, sweetie.” He grins. “Keep stroking my ego like that and I’m not going to last very long.”
You gulp.
“I’ll promise you this,” he says, and his expression turns sincere as he takes your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. “When I do finally fuck into that pretty little cunt, you’ll feel nothing but pleasure.”
He means it as a comfort but it lands like a punch, and your lower belly contracts in shameless anticipation.
“Now lie back,” he says, pressing you into the cushions with soft kisses at your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. “Let me get you ready.”
He works his way down your body with a torturous lack of inertia—sucking a bruise into your breast, dragging his teeth over your hip bone, backtracking to bite at the tender flesh of your navel—and by the time he guides your legs over his shoulders, the heat of his breaths against your core is enough to make you twitch.
Then he pauses, wolfish red gaze lighting on you as the corner of his mouth tics up in a smirk. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he says, and then he’s licking into you— one long, slow, deep stripe that has you bowing off the couch.
His hand is quick to force you back down, a firm pressure against your sternum, but once you’re settled again he shifts it to the side to knead at your breast. You moan, and he slips two fingers into you, followed shortly by a third.
You make the mistake of looking down at him, and he’s watching you intently, mouth buried in your cunt, gaze so piercing and raw that it wounds you— burns you like a hot poker pressed against your psyche. It has you reaching down to card your fingers through his hair. Has his name leaving you on a sigh.
The moment Sylus hears it, his eyes flash, something possessive rippling through him as he scrapes his teeth down your clit. You buck into him, fingers curling against his scalp to pull him closer, or maybe push him away, or maybe hold him there forever, just like this.
He’s generous with his attention, working you over with relentless patience, and you’re not sure what he’s doing with his fingers but it feels incredible. The way he’s stretching you— preparing you. Riling you up and then calming you back down. Then he flicks his tongue, causing you to squirm and tug on his hair.
More— you want more.
A broken whine leaks out of you, and a growl vibrates in the back of Sylus’s throat just before he closes his lips around your clit and sucks, fingers fucking in and out of you with renewed vigor.
You drop your head back and dig your heels into his ribs, and you’re so close, so close, so—
“Oh no you don’t—”
He abruptly breaks away, and then the crackling tendrils of his Evol wrap around your arms, your waist, your legs. One moment you’re flat on your back and the next you’re hovering over his lap, facing away, knees on either side of his hips and feet wedged against the back of the couch.
“We’re gonna have to work on your communication, kitten.” He bands an arm around your middle and presses a chaste kiss between your shoulder blades, lips miles away from where you need them. “You almost snuck one past me.”
Your head is spinning, thoughts clouded by the potent haze of desire. “Wh— what?”
“It’s my fault, I suppose, for not explaining the ground rules.” He pushes his fingers between your bun and your scalp, tugging on your hair in a way that sends pleasure zipping down your spine, and then he angles your head to the side. “You will come when” —a kiss to your jaw— “and where” —to your neck— “and how I please.”
Your cunt clenches on nothing, and you swallow back a pathetically needy noise he doesn’t deserve to hear. “You’re such a bastard.”
“Yes, yes. I’m truly awful.” He mouths at your shoulder, teasing you with the shape of a bite as he rubs the head of his cock through your folds and coats himself in your slick. “Now, would you like to get back at me… or would you like to come?”
Both, you think, but first thing’s first. You cant your hips and position him against your entrance, moaning when his broad tip slots neatly into place.
“I thought as much.”
“Shut up,” you hiss.
He huffs a laugh, breath fanning against your overheated skin, but otherwise remains quiet as he leans back and stretches his arms across the back of the sofa. Small mercies.
To business, then.
You rock and roll and swivel your hips, eyes pinched shut as you concentrate on making him fit, but after a few attempts to sink onto him, it’s becoming obvious that your body refuses to cooperate. He’s simply too big. “Sylus, this isn’t working.”
“You’re tensing, pet.” His hands are on you again before the words are out, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your lower back. “Deep breaths. Relax for me.”
You do as he says, and on your third exhale, the head of his cock finally slips snugly inside you.
Sylus groans at the same time you do. “That’s it, kitten.” He palms your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple as he trails kisses along the top of your shoulder. “Slow and steady. We have all the time in the world.”
At first, it’s more of a negotiation than sex—this process of trying to convince your body to accept his girth—but with each press of your hips, you slide a little farther down, greed spurring you on, friction making you bold.
Sylus removes your hairpin, and your curls fall in a tumble down your back. He sweeps them to one side and kisses the curve of your neck, warm lips a harsh contrast to the cool metal of your necklace. “You’re doing so well, pet.” The pad of his finger is soft beneath your chin as he tilts your head up. “Look how pretty you are taking my cock like this.”
And then you see it— your combined reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace. The gold-rimmed monstrosity is angled down in a way that perfectly frames the carnal depravity of this moment, and you flush as you take it all in— the size of Sylus’s body compared to yours, the gems he himself decorated you with glinting in the firelight, the untamed hunger in his gaze as he watches you fuck him, the sheen on his cock as you drag yourself up and down, up and down. It’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen, and you moan.
“I think you’ve earned a reward for all your hard work,” he says, a hand sliding down your stomach, and then his fingers are rubbing quick, exacting circles into your clit. “Now be a good girl and come for me. Come on my cock.”
The orgasm rips through you before you have time to prepare, and you’re screaming, writhing, nails digging into the arm he wraps across your chest to keep you from getting away. He murmurs something into your neck, but you’re too far gone to hear it, ears ringing from the roar of your pulse, thoughts scattered and incoherent.
Your muscles eventually cease their spasming, and Sylus’s fingers slow, then disappear entirely.
You look up at him. Blink sluggishly. “Why’d you stop?” you ask, slurring your words a bit.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he says, and it sounds like a compliment. “Very well. More it is.”
Between one breath and the next, he has you on your back, and you’re instantly addicted to the sight of him above you— the cruel beauty of him like this, ashen hair a shock against the dark ceiling, tanned skin glowing gold in the firelight. He pushes into you slowly, watching your face with rapt fascination as you adjust to the new angle, something like concern catching in the corners of his eyes.
Only— that’s exactly what it is. He’s worried he’s hurting you, you realize.
On instinct, you reach up to cup his cheek, and he goes completely still. Before he can do something annoyingly noble, you wrap your legs around his waist and ram yourself the rest of the way onto him. “Stop treating me like I’m going to break,” you scold, breathing hard.
Sylus stays like that for a moment, hips pinning yours as his hand squeezes your waist to pull you even closer, your bodies locked together so completely that you’re not sure where he ends and you begin. “As you wish,” he says.
And then he moves.
Oh, how he moves.
When the poets write of sin and temptation and all manner of wicked vices, they are writing of him. His savage devotion. His tempered severity.
He is a wonder.
And he is yours— for now. For tonight.
So you kiss him and embrace this chance to peel back his layers, figure out what he’s made of beneath all the ill-timed quips and offended glances. He wants to use you? Fine. You’ll use him right back.
Sylus fucks like he fights, ruthless and efficient— finding openings where none exist, learning your tells before you’re even aware of them yourself, settling into a rhythm that feels like a dance. But unlike in the ring or the Protofield or even at the poker table, he doesn’t have his guard up. And the way he’s looking at you… it’s too much.
You throw an arm across your face and bask in the relief the accompanying darkness brings, but then Sylus grabs your wrist and pins it above your head. He even laces your hands together for good measure. Because of course he’s not letting you off that easily.
“Eyes on me, pet.” The bright crimson of his gaze is like a caress as he brushes his thumb across your lower lip. “Let me see that pretty smile.”
You moan and take his thumb into your mouth. Swirl your tongue around it.
“You like my voice, don’t you?” He slides his hand down, smearing your own spit across your chin, over your neck. “Like it when I tell you how perfect you feel. How slick you are for me— because of me.”
You don’t take kindly to the accusation. Nor do you love the prospect of him lording this knowledge over you every chance he gets, so you say, “I prefer you silent, actually.”
“Ah-ah, pet.” His hand wraps around your throat and he goes stock-still. “What did I say about lying?”
When you don’t reply, he tightens his grip, applying firm pressure on either side of your jaw, and you unfortunately fail to stop your body from responding.
“Oh?” he says, sounding delighted as your walls contract around him. “You’re just full of surprises, kitten.”
You grab at his wrist, and when that doesn’t work you roll your hips, and when he snarls and pins you in place with his Evol, you bite out a harsh, “Sylus, move.”
He’s nose to nose with you and unyielding as a slab of marble. “Truth. First.”
“Fine,” you sneer, sucking in angry breaths like the air itself has wronged you. “Yes, I like it when you talk to me.”
“There’s a good girl,” he says, rewarding you by rutting into you once more, and you blush at the praise, embarrassed at how strongly he affects you. “Was that so difficult?”
“You’re— ah— insufferable.”
“Oh, pet, you have no idea.” He yanks on your neck and smashes your mouth against his in a vicious kiss, then breaks away to say, “But luckily for you, I’m feeling charitable this evening.”
He redoubles his efforts, snapping his hips against yours as he squeezes and releases your throat again and again, and soon you’re deliciously lightheaded and tingling all over, babbling pleas into the empty space between you like you’re beseeching a god.
“Would you like to come again?” he asks.
And oh, you’re so agonizingly close. “Yes—”
“Surely you have more manners than that,” he muses, infuriatingly unaffected even as he pounds into you hard enough to leave you breathless. “Now ask me nicely.”
Fuck it. You’ll make him pay for this later. “Please— please let me come,” you beg.
Sylus looks down at you with something resembling adoration. “Go ahead, pet.”
Your second orgasm is much kinder than the first, blooming slow and sweet, churning through your core like a summer storm. You scoop your hips to meet Sylus’s thrusts, and he fucks you through it, seeming to cherish the noises you make for him.
The third one, he takes from you by force, slamming you down onto his cock over and over again like you’re nothing more than a toy— a thing to be used. And to your somewhat mortified astonishment, you enjoy it. Thoroughly.
While you're still pulsing from the aftershocks, he slants his mouth against yours and swallows your moans. “Mmm, you come apart so prettily,” he murmurs, and then he drapes you across the couch, your knees on the cushions and your arms hanging over the back. “Again,” he demands, voice low and gravelly as he pushes into you from behind.
You whimper. “Sylus, please— please no more.”
“No deal,” he says, nipping at your ear. “I prefer even numbers. And also double-digits, but I’m willing to compromise.”
He torments you with shallow thrusts, and you’re so sensitive that your eyes prick with moisture. “I can’t—”
“Shhh,” he soothes, hands skimming over your sides, down your legs. “You can handle it.”
You choke back tears, and that finally gets him to still.
When he next speaks, it’s with less intensity, with his edges filed down to curves. “Just focus on my voice, kitten. On the way you fit in my hands.” He palms your breasts and nuzzles into the back of your neck. “God, you’re so soft and pliant. It’s like you were made for me.”
You turn into the touch, craving more of this tender way he’s handling you, and reposition your arms so that you can grip the back of the sofa.
“Good girl. Now breathe with me.”
He flattens himself against your back, the broad expanse of his chest heavy and comforting, and inhales slowly. Exhales slower. You do your best to match him, nerves calming bit by bit, breath by breath.
“That’s it.” A kiss that gets lost in the tangle of your hair. “You’re doing so well.”
You melt into him, humming contentedly. He seems determined to ruin you for anyone else, and you have half a mind to let him. And then it happens— you come alive again in his hands. A creature made of the most primal, most ragged need. You rock your hips, all but delirious for the friction he’s withholding.
“Ask for what you want, pet. What only I can give you.” The words are rough— breathy in a way that finally betrays his arousal. He craves release just as much as you do. More, even.
“Please, Sylus.” Your voice is wobbly and hoarse, and you swallow to wet your throat. “I want to come again. For you.”
His cheek moves against your ear— a smile, maybe. “You really are magnificent,” he marvels and grabs you by the jaw, shoving three fingers into your mouth as he snaps his hips against yours.
You barely have a chance to balance on the edge of bliss before his hand is on your clit, and you come undone on a sob, unraveling down to the marrow. Sylus’s rhythm fractures, perfect tempo turning manic as he chases his own release, the wet slap of your bodies obscene against the muted crackle of the fireplace— and then his teeth are at your shoulder, a sharp pinch as he spills inside you, hot and thick.
You expect him to pull away immediately, but instead he just… holds you. He holds you so tight that it’s almost painful. Holds you so tight that you can feel his heart thundering behind his ribs.
Would it be so bad, you wonder, to just stay like this?
To be his for a bit longer?
Before the idea grows roots, he kisses the base of your neck and lets you go. Without his support, you collapse into a crumpled, sweat-drenched heap against the supple leather, and then he’s covering you in something soft and heavy— his jacket, you think. It smells of him.
Behind you, his belt jangles, and it sounds like he’s putting his pants back on but you’re too tired to look. Then he gathers you against his bare chest—one arm at your back and the other beneath your knees—and stands, jostling you slightly to adjust his hold.
“Where are we going?” you ask, eyes closed, words sloshing together.
“To bed,” he replies.
The trip to the guest room is quick and silent, and you’re grateful the hallways are empty, given your current state of undress. Once inside, he walks straight into the wetroom, and that’s when you realize— he didn’t bring you to the guest quarters, he brought you to his.
A strand of his Evol snakes around the glass panel to activate the shower, and then he sets you down on the counter next to the sink, marble cool against the backs of your thighs, mirror cool against your spine.
You let your head loll back so you can stare at him, incredulous. “Sylus, what are you doing?”
His expression is inscrutable. “I think we can both agree that a shower is in order. And these” —he methodically removes your earrings, one after the other, and sets them aside— “shouldn’t get wet.”
You shift uncomfortably. “If you wanted your jewelry back—”
“I don’t care about the jewelry.” He reaches for your bracelet.
“Then what? Why did you bring me in here?” You try to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let you. “You already got what you wanted.”
“Did I?” He presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist and then unclasps the band of square-cut rubies that’s worth more than your entire apartment complex. The bracelet pools in his hand before he places it next to the earrings. And then he’s leaning closer.
Your breath hitches.
“Is it so impossible to believe that this” —he touches his lips to the base of your throat— “is what I want?”
“God, you’re insatiable,” you groan, putting your hands on his chest to hold him at bay. “I’m too sore for more.”
He huffs out a mirthless laugh and rests his forehead against your shoulder. “The Hunter’s Association certainly does know how to pick them,” he mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You shove at him, and he has the decency to take a couple steps back—
Only to stalk forward again and then cage you between his arms, fists resting on the counter on either side of your thighs. “It means that I want you, sweetie.”
You blink. “What?”
“You heard me,” he says, brows lifting.
“You…” You shake your head. “You’re lying.”
Sylus takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, gaze briefly dipping to your lips before it once again settles on your eyes. “I don’t lie. Not to you.” He drops his hand back to the counter and leans in for a kiss.
You recoil, and he doesn’t press his luck. “You’ll get tired of me,” you say.
“Not possible.”
“I’ll get tired of you.”
“I’ll endeavor to keep things interesting.”
“This will never work.”
“Are you rejecting me, kitten?”
“I didn’t say that,” you snap, and you immediately want to cram the words back in.
Sylus does a terrible job of hiding his smirk. Doesn’t even try, really. “How about” —he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear— “we start with a shower?”
You cock an eyebrow at him, suspicious.
That earns you a chuckle, and he holds up his palms like he’s surrendering. “I promise to be on my very best behavior.”
He’s patient as you consider what he’s saying. What he’s asking. But it doesn’t take you long to realize that this is what you want— that he is what you want, irksome attitude and all. The revelation has your pulse hammering as hard and fast as if you were fighting a wanderer, and perhaps you’re a fool, but you say, “Okay.”
And this time when Sylus leans in to kiss you, you don’t deny him.
He brings one hand to your jaw and settles the other on your waist, fingers curling against your sweat-slick skin as he pulls you closer and licks into your mouth.
You turn your head away, gasping. “You said—”
“We’re not in the shower yet,” he points out, and then his lips are on yours again.
You reciprocate without thinking, hands reaching for his belt the instant a lewd noise gets stuck in his throat. You’re still slick from earlier, and he sinks into you like he’s sheathing a blade, like being inside you is where he belongs.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, a hand splayed against the small of your back.
“So do you,” you return, and he groans.
Sylus is different with you this time— closer, softer, lips a steady presence against yours as he languidly thrusts into you. He has you mewling with pitiful swiftness, and then his fingers are at your clit, insistent and skilled.
“Come for me,” he whispers into your mouth, and you do. Effortlessly.
But then his fingers don’t stop— don’t even slow.
“Sylus, no—”
“Even numbers, pet.”
At least he’s gentle as he coaxes the second—or rather, sixth—one out of you. Gentler still as he finds his own release, forehead tipped against yours.
Before you have a chance to get your bearings, Sylus undoes the clasp of your necklace and lets it clatter onto the counter. Then he scoops you against him, still half-hard inside you, and walks you both into the shower. He steals another kiss before he tilts your head back and wets your hair.
When he’s eventually forced to choose between holding you and washing you, he begrudgingly sets you on your own two feet and stands behind you, hugging you close even when it’s impractical to do so. You giggle as he fumbles with the shampoo bottle but otherwise say nothing.
Soon enough, your eyes are drifting shut as he works your hair into a lather, and the press of his fingers against your scalp sends little tingles down your spine.
“I’ll have Luke and Kieran pick up your preferred brands tomorrow,” he says, and you smile at the implication of his words— that you’ll be showering here frequently enough to warrant your own set of products.
“There’s really no need,” you say. “I can just use yours. And besides, I like the scent.” It’s smoky and rich— bergamot and several other notes you can’t place.
“I’m afraid it’s not up for negotiation, kitten.” He slides his hands down to massage the tense spot at the base of your neck. “Because the only time I want you smelling like me is after I’ve stuffed that pretty little cunt of yours full of my essence.”
You gasp and twist to stare at him, mouth slightly ajar. “Do you always have to say such vulgar things?”
He smirks. “Mmm, I think you like it when I say vulgar things. And besides” —he lightly bumps the underside of your chin with a soapy knuckle— “you’re always so cute when you blush.”
Salacious comments aside, Sylus stays true to his word and doesn’t make any advances in the shower, though he clearly thinks about it several times, most noticeably when he groans while dragging a washcloth through the mess between your thighs.
After, he towel dries you and dresses you in one of his sleep shirts before putting himself in the matching pants. The top is so oversized that the hem dusts your thighs, but you’re not complaining, especially not when he carries you to his bed and settles himself at your back, an arm slung over your waist like he’s guarding a treasure.
You relax against him, but he seems too far away, so you roll yourself over and curl into his warmth, hands pressed to his chest.
“Careful, kitten,” he says, fingers tracing delicate, aimless designs up and down your arm. “I could get used to you acting like this.”
“Mmm, like what?” you ask, already half asleep.
He holds you a bit closer, lips moving against your hair as he whispers, “Like you’re mine.”
The pull of unconsciousness is strong, but you fight it for a moment longer. “Sylus?” you murmur, burrowing deeper into him. “Don’t break my heart.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead, and the last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, hushed but earnest: “Wouldn’t dream of it, pet.”