Dexter hadn't expected company.
Not at that hour. Not at his wing. Not with the moon barely hanging above the east tower like a dying eye.
He didn't budge when he heard the knock.
The knock hadn't come again.
But it didn't need to.
Whoever was outside was waiting.
Three slow steps. He didn't rush.
Didn't check the peephole either. He already knew. Could feel the residual psychic hum still clinging to his threshold. Rage. Controlled, yes, but fresh. Potent.
He opened the door.
And there she was.
Serana.
Barefoot.
In a thin, sleeveless ivory nightgown that could've passed for ceremonial sin in certain empires. Her red hair was down—actually down—messy in a way that somehow looked deliberate.
Dexter blinked once. Not because he was flustered. He hadn't felt real embarrassment since... no, never mind. That was too long ago to count.
But the silence?
The stillness?
That caught his attention.
She didn't speak. Didn't glare. Just stared at him, eyes wide and unreadable. No emotion. And that… was new.
Then, like she owned the place—and him—she stepped past him and into the room.
He shut the door behind her with a quiet click.
'Okay, then. Breaking and entering it is.'
He turned casually, hands in his pants pockets.
"Uh... curfew's still a thing, y'know?"
Still nothing. Not even sarcasm. She just stopped near his desk—right in front of a few open scrolls and two of his unmarked vials.
"Earlier," she said, "you did something to me."
He leaned his back against the door, letting out a lazy sigh. "Define something. I've been doing a lot of somethings lately."
Serana spun to face him. Her chest rose and fell in tight little bursts. She was angry. No—unsettled. Big difference.
"My curse," she said. "It blinked."
He tilted his head.
"It what?"
"It blinked, Dex. Like a fucking lightbulb glitching. One second I was ready to strangle you—business as usual—and the next… nothing. Just... calm. Empty calm. It felt disgusting to feel weak."
Her voice cracked on that last word. Just a touch. And that was when he knew it wasn't just anger. She was scared.
Scared of not being angry and considered weak.
He smirked. "Sounds like a you problem, Serana. Maybe your curse just needed a juice break."
"Don't play me," she said as she took a step forward. "You're hiding something. And it's not that ridiculous helpless act you pulled in class."
Dexter didn't budge. Not when she came closer. Not when the cinnamon scent of her shampoo drifted between them. Not when her green eyes locked onto his, burning with confusion and hate and something else—something sharp and raw and aching for understanding.
Then, suddenly, she kissed him.
Hard.
Messy.
One-sided.
'Ehhhhh!' Dex thought process zoned out for a fraction of a second.
Her mouth crushed into his like it was a weapon, not a plea. There was no grace, no buildup—just fire. Tongue, teeth, lips. Desperate.
She wanted to make him react. That was all it was. She wanted to shake the mask loose. Rip it off and find a man underneath.
Dexter didn't flinch.
Didn't kiss back.
Didn't even blink.
He stood like stone—cold, indifferent—his hands still at his sides, eyes still open.
And she noticed.
Her kiss grew more forceful.
Her frustration spiked instantly when she pressed her body against him, molding her soft breasts against his solid chest.
She moved her hips against his pelvis, desperate to feel something—a tell, a weakness, an arousal that proved he was a normal, reacting man. But she felt nothing. No answering heat. No erection straining against his pants. Just cold, granite-like stillness.
'What the fucking hell is going on?'
The absence of his reaction enraged her more than any rejection could have.
Dexter remained still. Observing. Measuring.
'Emotion: slight lust—secondary, fueled by Rage. Extraction: Zero. Response: Observation.' His internal ledger was running, detached and clinical.
The realization hit her hard. She broke the kiss, lips damp and parted, eyes scanning his face like she couldn't believe what just happened—or didn't.
She looked down.
Still nothing.
Flat.
Unbothered.
Rage slammed through her chest like a battering ram.
And that's when he moved.
His hand came up—fast, efficient—and closed gently but firmly around her throat.
Not rough. Not sensual. Not even angry.
It was the grip of someone testing a theory. The grip of a scientist securing a specimen.
Her breath hitched.
The moment his skin touched hers, she felt it—his heat. Not body warmth. Something deeper. Something invasive. Like fire slipping beneath her skin, licking at the source of her curse and curling its fingers around it.
Her strength flickering.
She blinked.
Rage—her lifelong companion, her constant pulse—just... dipped.
'No... Noooo!!'
Dexter's grip tightened. Just a bit.
His eyes locked onto hers. No charm. No warmth.
Just a predator.
Unblinking. Unapologetic.
He bared his teeth in something that wanted to be a grin but came out closer to a threat.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
Then the bloodlust hit.
It poured off him like a heatwave.
He lifted her.
Her toes left the floor.
She clawed at his wrist on instinct, panic overtaking any reasoning. But her curse? It wasn't helping. It was quiet. Suppressed. Like it didn't know who the bigger threat was anymore.
'He's not human,' she thought, dizzy and horrified. 'He's not… what is he?'
And then, just as suddenly, he let go.
She dropped like a stone.
Collapsed against the wall, gasping, one hand gripping her throat. Her skin was red, blistered slightly where his fingers had been.
Dexter exhaled, shook his head lightly, and stepped back as if waking from a trance.
"Shit. Sorry. I… I don't know what came over me," he murmured, his face smoothing back into the perfect, harmless professor mask.
His voice was soft. Even guilty.
The liar.
He had tasted it—her rage. And it was glorious.
Inside, he was laughing. Laughing so hard it nearly cracked his ribs.
'Just a graze, and the reaction is that volatile? Grade S+ indeed,' he thought.
Serana didn't speak. She stared at him, her body rigid with a fear she hadn't felt since she received the curse.
She bolted.
Didn't even slam the door. Just vanished into the hallway like her life depended on it.
Dexter stood there for a long second.
Then calmly walked over to the desk.
He raised his hand. Stared at his palm.
There it was.
A single, shimmering red droplet resting at the base of his lifeline.
He took a vial, uncorked it, and dripped the essence inside. It hissed faintly as it settled.
He sealed the bottle.
Labeled it mentally.
Serana.
Grade S+ Rage.
First extraction: successful.
'Emotional Transmutation: More than intact. It's thriving.'
He leaned back, brushing his lips with the back of his hand.
He could still taste her kiss.
The desperation. The confusion. The fury.
And now?
Now he had a reaction.
The very reaction she had desperately sought in vain appeared. A slow, satisfying, powerful erection strained against his pants.
"BWAHAHAHA..."
It started soft, then grew.
He laughed again.
Not loud. Not maniacal.
Just the laugh of a man who had finally been given permission to play.
To study.
To consume.
He'd barely touched her. Barely scratched the surface. And yet…
One kiss. One hold.
And she gave him everything.
'Thank you for volunteering for the first lesson.'
Dexter stared out the window, grin still in place, eyes gleaming in the dark.
"Lesson one, Serana," he whispered. "Don't play with stuff you do not understand."