IRYNA
The silence after the slap was thicker than smoke, heavier than the ache still smoldering under my ribs. My palm throbbed in time with my heartbeat—sharp, accusing. I sat on the very edge of the mattress, spine rigid, trying to pretend my legs weren't still trembling from the collapse outside. Trying to pretend I hadn't just kissed him back like a woman drowning and he was the only air left in the world.
Dark hadn't moved. He touched the faint red bloom on his cheek with the tips of two fingers, slow, almost meditative. Not angry. Not even mildly annoyed. Just… curious. Like I'd handed him an unfamiliar texture and he was deciding whether he liked the feel of it.
"You hit harder than you look," he said, voice low and smooth, the same velvet register he'd used when his mouth was on my neck.
I swallowed the sudden dryness in my throat. "You deserved worse."
A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his lips—dangerous, private, the kind of smile that made my stomach flip even while I wanted to claw it off his face.
"That seems debatable."
"Don't push it."
He let his hand fall. His gaze drifted—deliberately—down the length of my body and back up again. Slow. Unhurried. Possessive in a way that made heat crawl up my neck despite every screaming instinct to hate him.
I shot to my feet so fast the bed creaked. "The kiss didn't mean anything."
One dark brow arched. "No?"
"My body needed proximity. You said it yourself—closeness stops the pain." I folded my arms tight across my chest, as if that could shield me from the memory of his tongue sliding against mine, slow and devastating. "That's all it was. Survival instinct."
"Of course." His tone was so mild it felt like mockery. "Survival."
I hated how calm he sounded. How unruffled. How he could stand there looking like sin carved from moonlight and shadow while my pulse still hadn't settled from the way he'd kissed my throat like he wanted to drink me down.
"So... you don't feel emotions?" I demanded. "Not really?"
He shook his head once. "Not the way humans do."
"Then how do you smile?" My voice cracked on the last word. "How do you get angry? How do you—" I gestured wildly between us "—do 'that' ?"
"Expression is performance. Feeling is… unnecessary." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadn't quite decided to solve yet. "I understand what desire looks like. I understand rage. I understand fear." His gaze dropped to my mouth for one heartbeat. "I understand want. I simply do not 'experience' them the way your fragile heart does."
The word 'want' landed low in my belly like a stone dropped into dark water. Ripples spread. I hated them.
"Good," I snapped, turning away so he wouldn't see the flush creeping up my throat. "Then we understand each other."
"Perfectly."
The single word lingered between us, intimate and barbed.
I resumed pacing because standing still felt too much like surrender. My mind spun—pain that nearly killed me just for walking twenty steps, a kiss that felt like drowning in fire, the unbearable certainty that I couldn't run. Not without collapsing again. Not without dying.
I stopped at the window. Outside, the city moved on without me. Streetlights flickered on as dusk bled into night. Couples walked hand in hand. A mother pushed a stroller. Normal. Safe. Everything I wasn't anymore. My throat closed. My mother would be frantic by now. Ciara would be blaming herself. And I was here—trapped in a penthouse that shouldn't exist, tethered to a demon who looked at me like I was both his prison and his key.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and forced the words out.
"Fine."
Behind me, fabric rustled as he shifted. "That sounded suspiciously like surrender."
I spun. "Don't flatter yourself."
His mouth curved—just enough to make my pulse jump. I jabbed a finger at him.
"If I'm stuck with you—and I'm 'not' saying I accept this yet—but if I am, I'm not vanishing from my life. People will notice. My family. My job. My friends. I can't just disappear."
He inclined his head. "You were going to die in less than a month. You would have vanished anyway."
The casual brutality of it stole my breath. Anger flared hot and bright.
"That's different," I hissed. "If I disappear now, it'll destroy them. They'll spend years wondering. Searching. Blaming themselves. Please."
The please slipped out before I could stop it—raw, cracked. He watched me for a long moment. Then, quietly:
"You may continue your life."
I blinked. "What?"
"You will remain in proximity to me. The Anchor must be stabilized and reclaimed gradually. But you do not need to sever every tie." He shrugged one elegant shoulder. "We can find… an acceptable arrangement."
Suspicion curled in my gut. "Acceptable to who?"
"To both of us." His gaze never wavered. "There is a human solution."
I narrowed my eyes. "Why the emphasis on 'human'?"
"Because it is what humans do when they must live together without raising suspicion."
My stomach dropped. I already knew I wasn't going to like the answer.
"What is it?"
He said it like he was discussing the weather.
"Marriage."
Three full seconds of stunned silence. Then my brain detonated.
"YOU'VE LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND."
The shout bounced off the walls. I started pacing again—faster, harder—hands fisted in my hair.
"You 'kidnapped' me, shoved some demonic fragment into my chest, nearly killed me with pain twice today, and now you want to 'marry' me?!"
He remained perfectly still. "Your reaction seems excessive."
"Excessive?!" I whirled on him. "This is insane!"
"Humans who begin cohabiting without explanation attract attention," he said, unruffled. "Humans who are married do not."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am always serious."
I dragged both hands down my face. "This is the worst idea in the history of terrible ideas."
"It is efficient."
I glared at him—really glared. "I am not marrying you."
He tilted his head, considering. "Then I will assume the appearance of one of your loved ones and arrange a living situation that places us in constant proximity."
Ice slid down my spine.
"You're not touching anyone I care about."
"Then marriage remains the simplest path."
The room went quiet again. I sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
"This is madness," I muttered.
He didn't contradict me.
After a long beat I lifted my gaze. "So the marriage ends when you finish taking your power back?"
"To me, there was never a marriage." His voice was velvet over steel. "I do not believe in the concept."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, much better."
He stepped closer—slow, deliberate. Close enough that I could smell smoke and cedar and something darker, something that made my pulse stutter.
"According to human custom," he said softly, "I should offer you a ring."
Heat crawled up my neck again. "We are not doing this."
"I will do whatever the Anchor requires," he murmured, voice dropping to that low, velvet register that always seemed to stroke along my spine whether I wanted it to or not.
His gaze slid to my mouth— lingering there for one heavy heartbeat like he was already tasting the memory of our last kiss. When his eyes lifted again they locked onto mine, dark and molten, the blue gone almost black at the edges.
"But if you wish to indulge in every little human ritual marriage demands…" The faintest, wicked curve touched his lips, slow and sinful, the kind of smile that promised trouble and made my pulse stutter despite every screaming instinct to hate him. "I'm more than willing to play along."
He leaned in fractionally—just enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, just enough that the space between our mouths felt charged and electric.
"Every vow," he continued, softer now, almost a purr, "every ring… every night spent proving the bond in ways that have nothing to do with power and everything to do with how badly your body already craves mine."
His thumb brushed once—barely there—along the edge of my lower lip, the touch so light it was almost reverent.
"Say the word, little mortal," he whispered, breath feathering against my skin, "and I'll give you the wedding of your nightmares… or your sweetest, darkest dreams. Your choice."
He didn't move away. He waited. Patient. Predatory..Utterly certain I would break first. I snatched the nearest pillow and hurled it at his head.
"Fuck you."
He didn't even flinch. The pillow struck his chest and fell harmlessly to the floor. He looked down at it, then back at me—amused, predatory, unbearably beautiful.
I hated him.
I hated him so much it hurt. And the worst part? Some tiny, terrified, traitorous piece of me was already wondering what his ring would look like on my finger.