There was a rhythm to the city after midnight.
Not the chaos of cars or the drone of convenience store lights—but something softer. Like the hush of a cigarette being lit in an alleyway, or the beat of a song only two people could hear.
I stood on the rooftop of the cram school, arms resting on the rusted railing, watching the skyline flicker with broken dreams and vending machine lights. The veil held steady overhead—my spell, her aura, and whatever invisible thread kept this place tucked between the pages of a story nobody else was reading.
And behind me?
She was there.
Kiss-shot.
Sixteen again. In body, not in mind. She had slipped out behind me ten minutes ago without saying a word, barefoot, her hair catching the moonlight in a way that made poetry feel like a cheap imitation of honesty.
She didn't speak.
Not at first.
Just joined me at the edge, her presence brushing up against mine like static clinging to skin.
"You come up here often?" she asked eventually.
"Only when I want to forget I'm not human."
That earned me a sideways glance. Not mocking. Not even curious. Just a little surprised at the honesty.
"Forget, or pretend?"
"Aren't those the same?"
She leaned over the railing slightly, gaze cutting across the rooftops like a blade she'd once known how to use.
"You're trying too hard," she said.
"To be what?"
She shrugged. "Whatever it is you think I want you to be."
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't have a response.
Because she was right.
There was something about this version of her that made the silence feel more intimate than the conversation ever could. Her eyes didn't glow like they used to. Not tonight. They shimmered. Like gold coins sunk deep in cold water.
"Want to go somewhere?" I asked.
She arched a brow. "We're already somewhere."
"I mean somewhere else. A walk. A rooftop. Somewhere real."
She looked at me a moment longer, then turned away—just enough for the wind to catch her hair, for the shape of her to look untouchable again.
And then she said:
"Fine. But I choose the route."
She said it like a dare.
Not the playful kind. The kind that had teeth behind it. The kind that made you wonder if the route itself would be real… or metaphor.
I didn't question it.
Didn't need to.
Because when she stepped away from the railing and onto the ledge, barefoot and impossibly calm, I knew the walk wouldn't be normal.
Not with her.
"Don't lag," she said, glancing back just once before stepping off the roof entirely.
Not falling.
Just… descending. Like gravity didn't dare dictate her pace.
I followed.
Because of course I did.
—
The streets below were washed in that dim sodium glow that made everything look like an old photograph left too long in the sun. Kiss-shot walked ahead, slow but confident, like the city was her memory and she was checking to see if anything had changed.
It hadn't.
Not enough.
"Do you miss it?" I asked.
She didn't stop walking.
"Miss what?"
"Being something other than myth."
She tilted her head, not quite toward me.
"I don't miss things," she said. "I remember them. And sometimes, I regret what I did with the remembering."
That one hit a little too close.
I didn't reply. Just walked beside her, letting the silence settle like dusk around us.
We passed vending machines still humming like tired gods.
A cat watched us from a rusted fire escape—didn't run, didn't blink.
She turned a corner without warning, and I followed.
The alley was narrow. Cramped between buildings like a secret kept too long. She stopped there, finally, just before the dead end.
"Here," she said.
I looked around. "Kind of an odd spot for a walk."
"It's not the walk," she said. "It's what comes after."
And then—
She turned to me.
Close.
Too close.
One hand lifted, not touching, just hovering near my chest like she was waiting for the gravity between us to do the rest.
"You're different now," she said.
I blinked. "That's… vague."
Her expression didn't change. But her voice softened. Just a little.
"You're darker. Not in power. In pattern. You move like someone who's starting to forget where they began."
I didn't have a clever line for that.
Because she wasn't wrong.
And it terrified me how much I liked it.
"What do you think happens," I asked, "if I forget entirely?"
She leaned in.
Whispered.
"Then I'll be the only one left who remembers."
That silence?
Yeah.
That was intimacy.
And something else.
Something heavier.
Because for the first time—I wasn't sure which one of us was really trying to seduce the other.
———————-
Her breath was still close when it happened.
Not a sound.
Not a shadow.
Just the wrong kind of stillness.
Like the world flinched.
Like something decided we'd been alone long enough.
Kiss-shot noticed it before I did—her hand froze mid-air, fingers splaying like antennae for danger. Her eyes didn't glow. They dimmed. Like a predator adjusting to the dark.
"I didn't invite anyone else," she said flatly.
I didn't reply.
Because neither did I.
The end of the alley remained empty. No footfalls. No flickering shapes. Just the dull echo of distant life and the quiet hum of something watching.
And then—
A voice.
Faint. Feminine.
"Didn't think I'd find you here."
Kiss-shot's jaw tightened.
I turned slowly.
She was already there.
Hanekawa Tsubasa.
White blouse. Skirt catching the breeze. Glasses not fogged despite the summer heat. A girl who shouldn't have been able to breach the veil. Who shouldn't have wanted to.
But here she was.
And her eyes?
Not quite hers.
Something coiled behind them.
Cautious. Calculating.
Curious.
"Tsubasa," I said, keeping my tone even.
She looked at me like she was just now realizing I wasn't supposed to know her name.
Kiss-shot stepped forward, only once. Enough to shift the balance in the air.
"You brought her here?" she asked without looking at me.
"No," I said. "She brought herself."
Hanekawa tilted her head. "You both hide well," she said. "But not well enough."
I wanted to ask how. How she pierced the ward, the veil, the barrier made of layered magic and quiet rules. But something in her tone told me the answer wouldn't be hers.
Because this wasn't just Tsubasa anymore.
It was a shadow version.
A prelude.
Something leaking through the seams of the story.
Kiss-shot moved again. Slow. Careful. Not with fear, but with purpose.
"You should leave," she told her. "Before something inside you answers on your behalf."
Hanekawa blinked.
And smiled.
"I think I already did."
The air twitched. Like a breath being held too long.
I stepped in front of Kiss-shot—not as a shield, but as a question.
"Tsubasa," I said. "Why now?"
Her eyes flicked toward me.
And for a second—
They glowed.
Not brightly.
Just enough to remind me of a cat staring through a window at something only it could see.
"I had a dream," she said. "About a woman with golden eyes and a boy who didn't belong to any world."
Kiss-shot went rigid.
And I?
I smiled.
Because nothing is more dangerous than someone who doesn't know why they're speaking—but still speaks prophecy.
"I think it's time to wake up," I told her.
But the way her smile curled?
It said we were the ones still dreaming.
I didn't touch her wrist.
Didn't need to.
Just stepped past Kiss-shot, brushing close enough for her to feel the shift in intent.
"Walk with me, Tsubasa."
The words weren't a suggestion. They weren't a command either. They were the kind of thing you said when you already knew what came next.
She followed.
Not eagerly.
Not defiantly.
Just… as if the path had already been laid.
We left the alley behind, the veil humming faintly in its disturbed slumber. Kiss-shot didn't follow. Not yet. She watched, still and expressionless, like a knife deciding whether to leave its sheath.
We rounded the corner into another shadowed stretch of sidewalk, somewhere between the convenience store and the graveyard silence of the residential district. I let the streetlight above us flicker once before I spoke.
"You broke through something that shouldn't have let you in."
Tsubasa didn't respond.
So I kept going.
"You're not possessed. Not entirely. But you're... tethered. To something. Or someone."
She tilted her head again. Slower this time.
"I don't know what you mean."
She meant it.
Which was worse.
Because that meant something was cohabiting.
And doing a damn good job at hiding.
I stepped a little closer. The tension between us felt like a line of thread soaked in gasoline.
"You said you had a dream. About me. About her."
Tsubasa looked up. "Was it wrong?"
"No," I said. "It was too right."
That got a flicker of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Not recognition.
Regret?
I lowered my voice.
"What's the last thing you remember before the dream?"
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
And then, very softly:
"I was walking home from cram school."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I took the long way."
I nodded slowly. My breath fogged the air even though the night wasn't cold.
"Tsubasa," I said, "do you want to wake up?"
She looked confused by that.
Which told me everything.
Because this wasn't a possession.
It was an invitation.
Accepted subconsciously.
A door opened in a moment of vulnerability.
And something had stepped through.
"I'm not here to hurt you," I said.
"But you think I'm already hurt."
"I think you're a warning."
Her gaze didn't waver. "For you?"
"For her."
I stepped back. Just enough to make the distance feel intentional.
Then I asked, "Do you trust me?"
Tsubasa didn't answer right away.
But her hand, when it reached out to mine, wasn't trembling.
It was warm.
And I knew, right then, something had followed her through the veil.
Something we hadn't seen yet.
Something that didn't need a name.
Not yet.
————————————————-
The walk back was quiet.
Not the awkward kind. Not even the contemplative kind. Just… slow. Like the city itself had decided to hush while we passed through it. Streetlights buzzed above us, flickering like they couldn't decide if they wanted to see what we were becoming.
Kiss-shot didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her presence was loud in a way that had nothing to do with sound—like standing near an open flame you weren't sure had noticed you yet.
And me?
I kept stealing glances. At her hands. At the slope of her neck. At the way her hair moved in the wind, lazy and deliberate.
She didn't look back.
But I knew she noticed.
By the time we reached the stairwell back into the cram school, something had shifted again. Not violently. Not even obviously.
Just enough to matter.
She paused at the top of the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the railing. Not waiting for me. Just… not going in yet.
I stepped up behind her.
Close.
Too close.
Her breath didn't hitch.
Mine did.
"I get the feeling," I said quietly, "that you used to stand in doorways like this on purpose. Just to see who would follow you in."
She didn't turn. But she smiled.
"Maybe I still do."
My hand brushed hers—barely. A contact so soft it could've been a mistake.
It wasn't.
"I would've followed you anywhere," I said.
"Would've?"
"I still might."
She turned then. Slowly. Like moonlight reorienting itself across the floor.
And for a moment—
God, for a moment—
I thought she was going to kiss me.
Her eyes locked with mine. Her hand rose. Not to push me away. Just to touch the corner of my collar, the place where my pulse used to be loudest.
And then—
A flicker.
Not in her.
In me.
The sigil on my wrist pulsed once. Subtle. Cold.
And in the window behind her, just over her shoulder, I caught my reflection.
Except it wasn't mine.
Same face. Same eyes.
But those eyes glowed.
Briefly.
Wrongly.
Not red. Not gold.
Blue.
And my mouth? It was whispering something.
I couldn't hear the words.
But I knew they weren't mine.
The moment broke.
I blinked.
And Kiss-shot, ever so slightly, leaned back.
Not away. Just enough.
Just enough to make sure the kiss didn't happen.
Not yet.
Her fingers ghosted off my collar and dropped to her side.
"You're holding something back," she said.
I smiled. Crooked. Careful.
"Everyone does."
And she let that be enough.
For now.
We walked inside without touching again.
But the space between us buzzed like a wire that hadn't finished burning.
————————
The door creaked shut behind us with a sound like something ancient exhaling.
Back in the dark.
Back in the veil.
The cram school didn't welcome or reject us. It just endured. Like it always did. Like it was waiting to see how this particular chapter of our little myth would end.
Kiss-shot moved first. She stepped away with the effortless grace of someone who didn't need to prove she was strong anymore.
But she didn't go far.
She lingered.
In the center of the room now, half-swathed in silver light from the broken ceiling tiles, her bare feet silent against the dust. Her silhouette was sharper than it had been hours ago—more symmetrical, more final. Like her body was beginning to remember itself.
And me?
I stayed near the door for a second longer than I should have.
Because something still felt off.
That flicker in the window hadn't been a trick of the light. It hadn't been imagination. I'd seen myself. Another self. Echoing with power I hadn't called and words I hadn't meant.
The Grimoire pulsed again.
Not like before—no glow, no shimmer. Just a ripple under my skin, like cold breath against my bones.
I see you, it seemed to say.
And worse—
She does too.
Kiss-shot turned.
"Are you going to stand there all night, or should I pretend this isn't the part where you start asking the questions you've been avoiding?"
I stepped forward slowly, but didn't answer.
Not yet.
She tilted her head. "You've changed. Again."
"Have I?"
She crossed the space between us in two slow, deliberate strides.
"You smelled different when you came back. I thought it was blood or fear." Her hand rose—not quite touching, just hovering an inch from my sternum. "But it wasn't that. Was it?"
I didn't lie.
I didn't tell the truth, either.
Instead, I looked at her—really looked. At the version of her that was now almost whole again. Her golden eyes sharp and old, her body humming with reclaimed energy, her voice still edged with royalty and ruin.
And still…
Still, I wanted her.
Even now.
Especially now.
So I did something stupid.
I reached up.
Touched the edge of her hair—just enough to feel the static between us.
"You're right," I said softly. "I did change."
She didn't pull away.
She didn't press in.
Just watched me with the kind of stillness that dares the other person to flinch first.
"Was it worth it?" she asked.
I smiled. Not wide. Not cocky. Just a curl of the lips—something close to honest.
"I guess that depends on what it lets me survive."
She was so close I could feel her breath on my jaw now.
"You're scared," she said.
I nodded. "Only of one thing."
Her voice dropped to something just above a whisper.
"And what's that?"
"That I'll change into something you stop wanting."
She didn't reply.
But her fingers finally made contact—brushing the Grimoire mark on my wrist with featherlight curiosity.
The pulse kicked.
Strong.
Loud.
Just for a second, I saw the light flicker in her eyes—recognition, perhaps. Or maybe just instinct.
But whatever she saw?
She didn't pull away.
And neither did I.
Her fingers still hovered at my wrist—over the Grimoire mark, over the part of me even I didn't understand yet.
But her voice?
It was quieter now.
Not soft. Never soft.
Just… stripped of armor.
"Lucien," she said. "What do you want?"
The question hung there.
Not rhetorical. Not casual.
The kind of question that can only be asked once. Like breaking glass. Like undressing a soul.
I didn't answer right away.
Because I knew better.
Because wanting was dangerous.
She tilted her head, golden eyes unreadable in the half-light. "You're always circling. Always teasing. But you never say it. Not really."
"I thought you liked mystery," I said, and even to me it sounded like a deflection.
"I like honesty more," she replied. "Even when it's ugly."
And there it was.
The moment.
The line.
So I stepped closer—until our shadows overlapped, until the heat between us stopped pretending to be ambient.
"I want a lot of things," I said.
"Pick one."
I looked at her, really looked, and for once didn't try to be clever. Didn't smirk. Didn't deflect.
"I want you to want me," I said quietly. "Not out of obligation. Not out of hunger. Just… because you do."
Her expression didn't change right away.
But something behind her eyes did.
A flicker.
A crack.
Like the surface of something polished finally showing what it's been hiding.
"That's dangerous," she said.
"I know."
"For both of us."
"I know that too."
She stared at me a moment longer, then took one slow breath. Her hand moved—just slightly—away from my wrist and toward my jaw.
Not touching.
But close.
"Do you know what it means," she asked, "for someone like me to want?"
"Yes."
"Do you really?"
"No," I admitted.
"But I want to learn."
She almost smiled.
Not the cold, condescending kind she gave her prey. Not the royal smirk that crowned every threat.
Just the barest curve of something real.
Then her fingers brushed my chin, tipped it up, and she said:
"Then don't lie to me again."
And just like that—
The moment shifted.
From tension to trust.
From flirting to confession.
From something almost safe to something that could burn us both.
————————-
Lucien's POV
She turned away first.
But only barely.
The kind of retreat that wasn't about leaving—it was about letting me follow.
And I did.
Not physically. Not yet.
But in thought. In intent.
Because the moment she touched my face—just barely brushed it like she was testing for realness—I knew the scales had tipped.
She was starting to feel something.
And that?
That was leverage.
I didn't move, didn't speak. Just watched the way her shoulders tightened, the way she seemed to shrink and stretch at the same time. Sixteen-year-old form. Five-hundred-year-old shame.
All of it coiled up into the shape of a girl who wanted to believe she wasn't falling.
But she was.
And I made sure there was nowhere soft for her to land except me.
I've always known the trick to control wasn't force. It was faith.
Let someone believe you understand them—deeply, intimately, painfully—and they'll chain themselves to your version of the truth.
Even if it isn't theirs.
Especially if it isn't.
She wanted me to be honest.
So I gave her a truth.
Just not the truth.
Because I didn't tell her about the power pulsing in my blood now. The thing I'd stolen—or earned, depending on how you bend a story. I didn't tell her about the glowing edges of my vision or the sigils flaring in my peripheral every time she got too close.
I didn't tell her that I liked it when she looked smaller than me.
I didn't tell her that I'd already decided she was mine.
Because if I did?
She might pull away.
And I couldn't have that.
I leaned forward slightly—just enough to let my breath brush the air between us. Not touching. Just close.
"You don't need to worry about me lying again," I said softly. "I've found better ways to say exactly what I mean."
She didn't look at me.
But I felt her listening.
That was enough.
It always had been.
Because she didn't know yet—
Every answer I gave her?
Was a question she hadn't thought to ask.
And every silence?
Was me deciding what version of myself I wanted her to fall for.
The truth?
The real truth?
I didn't believe in love.
Not the way people meant it.
I believed in possession.
In weaving yourself into someone's bones so tightly that even their thoughts start to sound like your voice.
That's what I was doing.
Carefully.
Quietly.
One heartbeat at a time.
She didn't move.
Not away. Not closer.
But something shifted in her posture. Like her spine lengthened just slightly. Like her skin tightened over something older than bones.
"You're awfully deliberate for someone who acts so aimless," she said, finally.
I didn't answer right away.
Because the thing about manipulation is that timing is everything.
Instead, I smiled.
Not the charming kind.
Not the crooked, harmless grin I used to disarm her.
This one was quieter.
Worse.
The kind you wear when you've already moved the knife from her throat to her heart and she hasn't noticed.
"Maybe I just value my aim more than I let on," I said.
She turned then.
Only slightly—but enough that the moonlight hit her from the side, casting half her face in shadow. The effect was mythic. Like a cautionary tale wrapped in the shape of a sixteen-year-old girl.
God, she was stunning.
And I mean that in the most clinical, dangerous sense of the word.
Because beauty at her level wasn't something you admired.
It was something you survived.
"You've been circling something," she said. "Ever since you came back."
Her tone wasn't accusatory.
It was investigative.
Like she wasn't just trying to understand me—but trying to understand what she meant to me. And that? That was leverage.
"I circle a lot of things," I murmured. "Stories. Power. People I don't want to lose."
Her eyes sharpened.
"You think I'm something you can lose?"
"No," I said. "I think you're something I want to keep."
The air between us tensed. Not in a violent way.
But like a rubber band right before the snap.
She took a slow step forward. Not predatory. Not seductive.
Just deliberate.
Like she wanted to test what I'd do when she closed the distance.
I didn't flinch.
I didn't look away.
Because here's the truth:
I wasn't lying to her.
I just wasn't telling her everything.
Manipulation isn't always about deceit. Sometimes, it's about editing. Trimming a few inconvenient truths here, stretching a few impulses there. Cutting reality down to size until it fits in the palm of your hand.
And right now?
I had her in mine.
Even if she didn't know it.
Yet.
She was close enough to touch now.
Close enough that I could smell the faint iron twist of her magic. That half-reformed divinity swimming just beneath the skin of a girl pretending not to care.
"Then what do you want?" she asked, voice low.
Almost curious.
But not quite.
I tilted my head. Let the moment stretch. Let the tension breathe.
And then I said it.
Soft. Measured. Almost earnest.
"I want you to want me back."
Her expression didn't crack.
Not even a little.
But her pulse jumped.
Just once.
I heard it.
And more importantly?
So did she.
Because in that flicker, that instant of flinch, she saw the danger:
Not in my teeth.
Not in my strength.
But in the idea that someone like me might actually mean it.
And she didn't know whether to run or stay.
Perfect.
Because that was the question I'd been building toward since the moment I stepped through her veil.
Not: "Do you trust me?"
But: "Can you afford not to?"
"Can you afford not to?"
She didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Her silence was more honest than anything she'd said since I got back.
But that was the thing about silence.
You could project anything onto it.
Trust.
Fear.
Affection.
Ownership.
She stepped back—not far, just enough to let air pass between us again. Her expression unreadable, like the pause before a weapon reveals what it's pointed at.
I didn't chase the space she made.
Not physically.
But my mind did.
Control.
That was the word echoing in the empty parts of me lately. Not love. Not loyalty. Not even lust, though I wouldn't pretend that wasn't sitting just under my skin like a storm in waiting.
She was getting stronger.
Older.
The girl who curled beside me in sleep was becoming something far bigger—grander—than the moment had room for.
And I'd seen how her story ends.
What she becomes.
What she destroys.
If I didn't act now—anchor her—I'd be another name buried in the ashes of her next regret.
So I said something reckless.
Low. Quiet. Dangerous in how calm it was.
"Do you want me to kneel?"
Her head tilted.
Not in confusion.
In curiosity.
Like she didn't expect the shift—but wasn't surprised either.
"What would that prove?" she asked.
I stepped closer. Closed the space again, but slower this time. Like I was testing her reactions now.
"It'd prove I know who the god in the room is."
"And do you?"
"I do," I said. Then, right into the space where a breath would've been, I added—
"But gods don't get to be untethered."
That hit her.
Right in the part of her that remembered what it felt like to fall.
To beg.
To hunger.
The part that hated needing anyone—but had no choice.
Her jaw tightened. But her feet didn't move.
"You think I need a leash?" she said.
"I think I'm the only one who can hold it without breaking."
A beat passed.
Her golden eyes didn't flicker.
But something inside them did.
Something small.
Fractured.
Human.
And for just one second, I wanted to kiss her more than I wanted to win.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, I reached up—deliberate, slow—and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. My knuckles grazed her cheek.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't lean in, either.
She just let it happen.
That was permission enough.
"And if I break?" she asked. Voice low. Almost... soft.
I let the answer hang between us like a sword suspended by a whisper.
"Then I rebuild you."
The tension between us wasn't romantic anymore.
It was something darker.
Older.
Like two monsters learning how to share the same cage.
And somewhere behind my calm, beneath the charm, a deeper truth pulsed:
I didn't want her to love me.
I wanted her to belong to me.
And the more of her power she reclaimed—
The more I needed her to believe that was a good thing.
Even if it wasn't.
Even if it never was.
——————————————
Kiss Shot POV
"It was always the softest voices that hurt the most."
Not the ones that screamed. Not the ones that bled or broke or begged.
But the quiet ones.
The ones that spoke like they were folding a secret into your mouth.
The ones that knew how to turn affection into a leash.
His voice had changed.
I noticed it when he came back, box in hand, eyes calm in a way no one truly calm ever was.
And I noticed it again tonight—when he touched my hair like it meant nothing.
Like it meant everything.
Lucien.
The boy who bled like he enjoyed it.
The boy who looked at me like I was divine and fallible in the same breath.
He used to flinch around my power. Now he spoke like he owned it.
No—like he owned me.
And I let him.
Not because I didn't see it.
Because I wanted to know how far he'd go.
Power recognizes power, and this new version of him?
He was pulling strings without checking if they were attached to a soul or a throat.
I sat across from him in the half-lit room, legs curled beneath me, pretending to read an old manga volume someone had left behind. He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, lips tilted in that new shape he wore too easily now—half smile, half smirk, all design.
He thought I wasn't watching.
But I saw the way he catalogued my reactions.
The way he fed me just enough silence to make me speak first.
I didn't. Not yet.
Instead, I let the pages crinkle beneath my fingers. Let the tension stretch across the space between us like a violin string too close to snapping.
Finally—
"You're getting good at pretending," I said, not looking up.
He didn't blink.
"At what?"
"Wanting without showing it."
A pause.
Then: "Maybe I just stopped wanting."
"Lie better."
That earned me a breath of laughter. Not joy. Not denial. Just air sharpened by restraint.
I set the manga down and stood. Slow. Smooth. Like the creature he used to be scared of.
But he didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He just watched.
Waiting.
"You're not the only one learning," I said, stepping closer. "You think you're steering this, don't you?"
"Should I not be?"
"Careful," I murmured, brushing past him, close enough to drag a strand of my hair across his collarbone. "Some creatures bite harder when they're on a leash."
His pulse jumped.
Only once.
But I heard it.
I felt it.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I smiled for real.
Because the only thing more intoxicating than being feared…
Was being underestimated.
——————-
Lucien's POV
"Control is a myth. Influence, though… that's just gravity with better manners."
She passed me like a tide brushing against stone—gentle, effortless, but carrying the threat of erosion. A lock of her hair flicked across my collarbone like punctuation. Not a gesture. A warning disguised as affection.
And I let it happen.
Because letting her think she still set the pace?
That was part of the trick.
She was smarter now. Stronger. Her power returned in waves, each limb bringing back another layer of the monarch she used to be. Her steps weren't just graceful—they were deliberate. Predatory. The kind of movement you don't choreograph, only remember once it's already claimed something.
And yet…
She still circled me.
I turned as she moved past, slow enough to catch the trail of heat she left behind. My eyes didn't narrow. That would've made her think I was reacting.
No.
I received her challenge with a smirk.
Not smug.
Strategic.
"You're not wrong," I said, voice low. Controlled. "I am steering."
She stopped near the doorway, body half-turned, golden eyes catching the sliver of moonlight like she'd rehearsed it. Maybe she had. She was theatrical like that—always had been.
"Steering what?" she asked.
Us.
You.
This goddamn spiral.
But I didn't say any of that.
Instead, I took a step forward. Then another.
Until the distance between us was a conversation measured in heartbeats, not feet.
"The pace," I said. "The direction. The temperature of the air."
She tilted her chin, just slightly. That amused glint in her eyes again—the kind that said 'prove it.'
So I leaned in.
Close enough to fog glass.
Close enough to leave breath marks on her pride.
"You're waiting to see if I break, aren't you?" I asked, almost gently. "Wondering if the thing you tethered yourself to is stable—or just burning prettier than expected."
She didn't deny it.
Didn't need to.
Her silence was agreement in its most elegant form.
"But here's the truth," I continued. "I stopped breaking the night I stopped asking questions."
"And started asking for what, exactly?" she asked, eyebrow raised.
There it was.
That quiet knife hidden in her throat.
I smiled. Slowly.
"What do I want?" I echoed. "Easy."
And then I leaned close enough for only her to hear it:
"I want everything you're afraid to give."
She didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
But her lips parted—just slightly.
And in that space between breath and intention, between curiosity and fear…
…I saw the shape of her undoing.
Not because I forced it.
But because I named it.
And once something has a name—it starts to obey.
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I didn't touch her.
Not yet.
Touch gives too much away. It ends the game too quickly. And right now, I was winning by inches—by the sound of her breath slowing when I spoke, by the way her shoulders stayed still while her fingers twitched once, twice, like they wanted to react but didn't know how.
She was used to being the sun.
But me?
I was learning how to eclipse.
"You're not used to this, are you?" I said softly, like we were just trading confessions at the edge of some rooftop god forgot.
"This?" she echoed.
"Someone wanting you without wanting to survive you."
She went still at that.
There it was.
That fracture between fear and hope. The one I'd been gently tapping with every conversation, every glance, every refusal to back down. She wasn't afraid of violence. She was afraid of vulnerability. Which made her mine.
Not because I said so.
But because she didn't stop me.
"You talk like you know how this ends," she said after a beat.
I did.
I knew exactly how it ended.
I'd just been rewriting it one omission at a time.
I stepped closer—half a step now. Just enough for my breath to graze the corner of her mouth when I said:
"I talk like I've already seen it."
That lie wasn't even a lie.
Not with the way my world worked.
Not with how she still didn't know what I was.
What I was becoming.
She looked at me then—really looked. Like she was trying to remember who I was when she met me. Who I let her meet.
Her lips parted again. Not in surprise. In something that wanted to be surrender but was still wrapped in the language of power.
"You're dangerous," she said again.
I smiled—not like before.
Slower.
Meaner.
"I know."
And for a moment, the air tasted like submission disguised as choice.
But I wasn't done.
Because manipulation isn't about conquest.
It's about making someone think you're the safest person to betray themselves for.
So I stepped away. Just a little.
Let the absence sink in.
Let the ache of almost become a memory.
And in that moment, I wasn't just seducing her body.
I was seducing her narrative.
I'd made myself part of her mythos.
Now?
I was going to be the part she couldn't edit out.
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