KISSED IN POISON
— Onychinus Leader!Sylus Qin X Mother!Female Reader
She Ran To Protect Their Child. He Built A Kingdom To Bring Them Home.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊
*.✧ SYNOPSIS : She was the daughter of his enemy. He was the king of a criminal empire. They fell in love, but when she found out she was pregnant, she vanished—fearing the life their child would inherit. Seven years later, Sylus finds her. And he’s not here for revenge. He’s here to take back what’s his.
*.✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Dad!Sylus, mom!reader, mafia, rivalry, second chance, secret baby, exes, time skip, past lovers, alternate universe, break in, angst, fluff, romance, love, mature language, 10.9k words
*.✧ NOTE FROM LOTUS : Sylus the man he is 🫶. First time writing a fic this long. The most I have done so far is my Sukuna long fic. So pretty excited.
*.✧ — NAVIGATION // LOVE & DEEPSPACE MASTERLIST
➥ KISSED IN POISON : THE SERIES
➥ CHAPTER 1 // CHAPTER 2 // CHAPTER 3 // CHAPTER 4
➥ Heart Divider's by @/cafekitsune
DO NOT PRESS [READ MORE] IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.
[ 9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]
The coffee cup was warm in your hand, adding a soft contrast to the frost clinging to the window beside you. It was almost Christmas—and the world outside refused to sleep.
Streetlights flickered over slushy pavement. Laughter echoed as couples passed arm-in-arm, scarves flapping in the wind, paper bags stuffed with last-minute gifts. You could almost pretend this was normal. Almost.
You’d never unwrapped a present that wasn’t handed by staff or followed by a veiled threat. There were no fairy lights in your house—only chandeliers, bright and cold. No songs but the whispers of alliances. No joy but the kind bought with blood. Maybe this year, your father would tie a red bow on another crime family’s son and call it your engagement gift.
The thought made the cocoa turn bitter on your tongue.
You pulled your coat tighter around your body and meandered through the snow-laced path, your boots sinking softly into the freshly fallen hush. There was no real destination, only the comfort of moving without purpose—something so few daughters of crime lords were allowed to do.
Though the borrowed time in your hand was melting away like the snowflakes on your lashes, you wanted to savor it—to stretch every second into something sacred. And in the quiet hush of winter’s breath, you could only hope Sara—your precious, loyal Sara—remained undisturbed beneath your fluffy duvet, her body curled into the shape of your absence, her breath steady enough to fool anyone who dared to check.
Because if anyone did…You didn’t even let the thought finish.
Instead, you let your steps slow, your breath fog, and your eyes trail upward to the falling snow—each flake a whispered promise that tonight, just for a moment, you were free.
Your next stop was the beautiful bookshop that had become a permanent destination in your late-night shenanigan. Tucked between a florist and an old vinyl store, it stood like a secret only you knew—its windows glowing amber against the cold, a small sanctuary carved from ink and forgotten stories. The bell above the door chimed softly as you entered, the scent of parchment and cinnamon wrapping around you like a familiar hug.
No one asked questions here. No one looked too long.
The owner, a half-blind woman with a shawl always wrapped tight around her shoulders, simply nodded from behind the counter—more ghost than shopkeeper.
You drifted past the shelves, fingers gliding over cracked spines and gilded titles, your breath quiet, your heart lighter. In this place, you weren’t your father’s heir. You weren’t a pawn or a prize. You were just a girl who loved stories. And tonight, for a little while longer, that would be enough.
Your gloved finger glided over the spines, brushing gently across embossed titles worn down by time and affection. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting the scent of old parchment and winter-damp wood soothe the noise in your chest. This place had always calmed you. Tucked away from the rest of the world, it felt like a sanctuary built just for you—one untouched by your father’s empire or the sins it fed on.
Then your hand stilled. A black book. Heavy and sharp-edged. Its cover was matte, with gilded threads curling across it like veins of light stitched through shadow. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t beg for attention. But there was something about it that felt... familiar. Dangerous. Beautiful.
Your fingers began to curl around the spine but they weren’t alone. Another hand reached for the same book—timed perfectly, like the ghost of a shared thought. Gloved in dark leather, his fingers didn’t tremble. They didn’t hesitate. They simply rested against the same spine, pressing softly over yours, a cruel mockery of tenderness. The breath hitched in your throat before your mind had time to catch up.
Did they find you?
Your eyes drifted to the hand that had so casually landed atop yours—gloved in smooth, dark leather, the touch barely there but somehow unmistakable. For a second, you thought it might be someone clumsy, someone reaching without looking. But as you followed the line of the sleeve upward, something in your chest pulled taut, like a string pulled to the point of snapping.
Then he stepped fully into view and the world forgot how to breathe.
He wasn’t just attractive—he was ethereal in a way that bordered on unreal. Like someone born from poetry and blood, stitched together by sin and snow. His coat was tailored to fit a body made of sharp edges and effortless grace, the fabric falling heavy and rich around his tall frame. His dark hair was tousled, strands curled in loose defiance, and small flecks of snow clung to him like decoration—though none dared melt. His skin, pale in contrast to the storm-black of his coat, made him look carved from winter itself. But it was his eyes that truly held you hostage.
Cold. Ancient. Discerning.
They didn’t look at you like a stranger. They looked at you like a puzzle long awaited. As if your presence wasn’t just noticed—it was anticipated.
You didn’t know him. You were sure of that. You’d remember a man like this. You’d remember the chill that came with his presence, the electric hush that had settled over the space between you. And yet, there was something about him that made your instincts falter—an unspoken familiarity buried somewhere in the way he carried himself, in the way the air bent around him.
Neither of you spoke at first. The book—now forgotten—remained trapped between your gloved fingers and his, the shared contact pressing against the fragile boundary between stranger and something else entirely. You should’ve let go. Should’ve apologized and stepped away. But you didn’t. Your body remained still, your pulse slow but hard in your throat, and something deep inside you whispered that this moment—this man—was not to be dismissed.
Then he smiled. Just barely. Just enough to sharpen his already unholy beauty.
“Interesting choice.” He said, voice deep and smooth, carrying the warmth of aged whiskey and the chill of distant storms, “That book isn’t meant for light hands."
The comment was casual, but it pressed too close. Too knowing. Like he wasn’t referring to the book at all. You swallowed, unsure of why your throat had gone dry. Something about him unsettled you. Not in fear. But in a way that made you feel seen too deeply, too quickly. You straightened your spine, forcing your voice steady.
“It’s just a book,” You said, trying to sound indifferent, unbothered.
His eyes didn’t waver. They studied you like you were anything but, “That depends on who’s reading it.”
And suddenly, you hated how soft the lighting was, how close the shelves were, how the bookshop felt too small with him in it. Not because you were afraid. No. But because this man, this stranger, was filling every space in your mind, every thought, with the weight of something you couldn’t name.
You wanted to leave. You wanted to stay. But most of all, you wanted to know why it felt like fate had finally knocked—and why it looked like him. He breathed of sin, and you were too weak to resist the allure. So, you stayed. To this day you couldn't decide whether that one decision was your biggest mistake or greatest bliss.
[ PRESENT TIME, LINKON CITY ]
Damn Linkon’s traffic and damn the uneducated drivers who somehow believed honking was a solution to everything while having no sense of road etiquette.
You gritted your teeth as a car swerved way too close to yours, forcing you to slam the brakes with a jolt that nearly made your heart leap into your throat. The wheels skidded slightly on the icy road, and what little remained of your now-cold hot chocolate splashed out of the cup and into the holder, dark liquid trailing like a petty reminder of your already shitty mood.
Beside it, nestled securely in the passenger-side console, was another cup—this one covered in pastel unicorns, with a glittery lid that looked like it had been summoned straight from a six-year-old's dream. One glance at the thing and you could practically feel the sugar coursing through your bloodstream. It was, by all nutritional standards, a crime. A rainbow-colored, whipped-cream-drowned, syrup-drenched crime.
And yet… you bought it anyway. Of course you did. Was it unhealthy? Yes. Did you still get it for your precious little baby as bribe cuz you were late again? Yes.
Because you can already picture your daughter with that look—those watery eyes, that small pout, the one that wordlessly said, “You promised, Mommy.”
Honestly, it wasn’t even your fault. Your boss—also known as Director Vale, aka the Federation’s most decorated sadist—had somehow decided that you, and only you, should handle the full dissection of a Level 3 Wanderer incident report, encrypted cross-border Evol tracking data, and a civilian memory wipe review. All in one day. Alone. Without backup. As if being a single mother and the lead tactical analyst for the Intelligence Division of the Deepspace Hunter Bureau wasn’t enough. The man practically inhaled sadism with his morning coffee.
You exhaled sharply, tightening your grip on the wheel as another car blared its horn, like that would magically part traffic on a road crammed tighter than your schedule. You could still hear your boss’s voice ringing in your ears, his tone grating, clipped, dismissive.
“Figure it out, Agent. Or don’t come back tomorrow.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. Not because it hurt. But because it stopped you from fantasizing about shoving a stapler down his throat. Not long after your car pulled up in front of the daycare center.
Not long after, your car finally rolled to a stop in front of the daycare center, headlights casting long shadows across the frost-laced sidewalk. The place was half-dark already—its front sign blinking tiredly like even it was done with today. You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Way past pickup time.
Damn it.
You shut off the engine and stepped out, boots crunching against a thin layer of ice. The cold bit instantly at your cheeks, but you barely noticed. Your legs moved on muscle memory, fueled by guilt and that ever-present ache of knowing you were late again. Inside, the building was quiet except for the low hum of a heater and the soft giggles of a child echoing from the far end of the hallway.
Your breath caught the second you saw her.
There she was—your daughter, seated cross-legged on a plush mat, completely engrossed in a picture book she was holding upside down. Her coat had slipped off one shoulder, and her little glittery backpack lay abandoned beside her like a forgotten treasure chest. Her soft brown curls bounced as she laughed at something only she understood, cheeks flushed pink from indoor warmth and patience that no child should’ve had to master this early in life.
A pang of guilt curled in your chest.
She looked up then, as if sensing you. And the moment her eyes met yours, everything—traffic, bosses, deadlines, exhaustion—melted into the background.
“Mommy!” She squealed, scrambling to her feet.
She ran—boots squeaking against the floor—and you barely had time to crouch down before she threw herself into your arms with the kind of reckless love only children know how to give. You held her tight, breathing her in—syrup and crayons and fabric softener. She smelled like safety. Like the only thing in this cold, chaotic world that still made sense.
“You’re late again,” She said, pulling back just enough to frown, arms still looped around your neck.
You sighed, “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. But I brought you something.”
That earned a suspicious squint, “Better not be another apple.”
You reached into your bag with a half-smile and pulled out the unicorn cup. The gasp she let out could’ve been heard across Linkon. The drive back home was livelier than before, the silence of the night replaced by Elea's endless chatter as she recounted her day in vibrant detail, something about Penguins not being able to fly and a verbal fight with a boy who disagreed.
Your eyes flicking toward the rearview mirror ever so frequently to catch her reflection—rosy cheeks, animated expressions, eyes like firelight. She looked so much like her father it hurt.
“Sounds like a very eventful day,” You said, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel, the other adjusting the heater knob as snow began to coat the windshield.
“It was! And guess what, Mama? I drew you a picture. You have a cape and a sword and you’re fighting a bad guy.”
You raised a brow, “I thought I worked in a office?”
“You do. But you’re also a superhero.”
You felt your throat tighten, something warm and unspoken blooming in your chest. You swallowed around it, choosing instead to focus on the road, the way the streetlights passed like fireflies in the dark, the hush of snow against your tires. In that moment, it was so easy to pretend everything was fine. That you were just a tired mom and her eccentric daughter, driving home from daycare like any other family.
But there was always a line, thin as frost, sharp as regret. And it always reminded you that peace—this fragile slice of it—was borrowed time. Still, for tonight, you let her ramble. You let her fill the silence. You let the road stretch out like a lullaby, and prayed the ghosts of the past stayed buried beneath the snow.
Your house was nestled near the quieter edge of Linkon City, where the lights dimmed earlier than the rest of the district and the snow stuck longer to the rooftops. It wasn’t large, not by Federation standards—but it was theirs. A modest two-storey townhouse, tucked between steel-and-glass neighbors that looked far too sterile to hold memories.
You had insisted on warm-toned bricks when you'd signed the lease under a different name. Inside, the scent of vanilla-sandal diffuser mixed with traces of cocoa and faint lemon cleaner—clean, soft, and lived-in. The living room was bathed in amber light from an old floor lamp, with children’s drawings taped to the fridge and a fortress of plush pillows on the couch, where Elea liked to claim her “princess throne” after school.
Security, of course, was woven through every inch of it. Hidden retinal scanners on the back door. A reinforced panic room behind the pantry wall. Every communication node hard-coded to bounce through triple-encrypted shadows. To Elea, it was just home. To you, it was a fortress built on borrowed peace.
Something was wrong, you could feel it in your bones the second the door clicked shut behind you, the silence felt like a breath held too long. The years of living like a mouse under your father's gaze, looking out for mouse traps and the constant looking over your shoulders, scared the past will catch on and drag you down to the darkest pit of hell filled with vengeance for what you did to him has polished your danger detecting skills.
The heater is on but it's not supposed to be. It's a sensory heater, only turns when it detects a human and adjusts the temperature on its own. The photo frame on the coffee table is slightly moved to the left.
The soft hum of the heater alone made your heart skip a beat. It wasn’t supposed to be on. The heater is always kept it on sensory mode—a top-grade, adaptive unit that only activated when it detected a registered biosignature inside the house. Either yours… or Elea’s. And you’d both been out. You tried not to react. Not in front of her.
Elea had already darted into the living room, slipping off her coat and making a beeline for her coloring book stack. You followed slower, eyes sharp, and the gun strapped under the blazer, ready to take out any threat to your baby. And then you saw it.
The photo frame on the coffee table. The one with the two of you— you and Elea in the center, taken on the first day of her elementary school right outside of the school. You always placed that frame to face the wall slightly. A tiny habit. No one ever noticed. Now, it was turned. Just enough to be centered. Just enough to tell you someone had been here.
The heater’s quiet purr felt suddenly too loud. Why has the alarm system not gone off yet?
“Sweetie, I almost forgot..." You said, forcing a lightness into your voice as you shrugged off your coat, “Miss Claire said she has something for you. Why don’t you go see what it is first?”
Elea paused mid-spin, her unicorn cup still clutched in her hand.
“Really?” Her eyes lit up, bright and gleaming like a snowy sunrise.
You nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Go on. But don’t forget your gloves this time.”
Claire’s house stood right across the narrow lane—muted blue siding, a weather-worn porch swing, and thermal shields so well-disguised even your own clearance once had trouble tracing them. She was in her mid-fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a gait that belied the countless medals locked away in her attic. An S-level retired Deepspace hunter, and more importantly, the one person you trusted to keep Elea safe.
“Okay!” Elea chirped, already tugging her boots back on, “I hope it’s cookies!”
You let out a soft hum, brushing a hand over her white hair before opening the door for her, “If it is, bring me one too."
She darted out, giggling down the icy path like the danger wasn’t even real—because you made sure she didn’t know it was. You waited till Claire opened the door and ushered Elea inside her safe sanctuary.
You shut the door with a click, and with it, the smile dropped from your face. Time to deal with whoever—or whatever—had the audacity to break into your home. Your fingers moved on instinct, reaching beneath your coat and unstrapping the compact firearm from its holster. Cool metal, reassuring weight. You gripped it tighter, your boots already abandoned at the doorway.
The floor was cold under your socks, but you welcomed the sting. Heightened your senses. Grounded you. Every movement was deliberate now—silent steps across the hardwood, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the hallway bend.
The living room light was still on, washing the space in a soft amber hue. Too soft. It made shadows blur at the corners. You scanned the room, eyes flicking over details. The heater was still humming low. The photo frame still shifted. But nothing else—no overturned objects, no broken glass, no signs of forced entry. Which meant only one thing—they had codes and clearance. They had you.
You crept toward the hallway, gun raised. A flick of your thumb activated the silent alarm toggle under the stair rail—an emergency beacon, encrypted, bouncing off three satellites before it reached Director Vale’s desk. Just in case. Your bedroom door was slightly ajar. You never left it like that.
Whoever was here never wanted to be hidden. They wanted you to know that they were here, creeping into the silence, waiting for you.
You peeked through the slight gap, inside the bedroom—empty, dimmed, eerie. The atmosphere felt off—thicker somehow. Like the air had held its breath for too long. Your eyes swept the room. The edge of the blanket had been smoothed down. The corner of your pillow was slightly indented—too fresh to be yours. And on your night stand, right where you kept your locket, was something new. You picked it up.
A single obsidian cufflink. You knew it instantly. Knew it like your own reflection. Custom made. Onyx core. Blood-red detailing in the center. He had found you.
Sylu—“Surprised, kitten?”
The voice hit you like a bullet cloaked in silk. Smooth, confident—like whiskey over ice, bitter and warm all at once. It slithered through the air, laced with something dark. Possessive. Familiar. Terrifyingly missed. Your breath caught in your throat. Every nerve stood alert, screaming—but your body stayed frozen. Only your heart moved, pounding so hard it echoed in your ears.
“That look.” He murmured, a dark chuckle curling around his words, “Looks adorable on you.”
Two arms slid in, caging you in against the nightstand. Neither rough nor violent but unyielding. One on either side, boxing you in with casual dominance only he could carry. His frame loomed behind you, tall and vast—a ghost reborn in flesh, cloaked in your memories, wearing time like it meant nothing. You were entirely engulfed in his shadow, the scent of ash, cedar, and something him wrapping around you like a noose and a blanket.
You didn’t dare turn around. Because if you did—if you saw those red eyes—you weren’t sure you’d shoot. You weren’t sure you could.
“Tsk… you know how much I hate it when you turn your back to me. Face me, darling… or I’ll find something—” His breath grazed your neck, “Or someone—precious enough to make you listen.”
Your blood turned cold. He knew—he knew about Elea. He knew about your past and now he is here to take revenge. Revenge on his enemy's daughter. Revenge on his mother's murder's offspring. Revenge on the woman who deceived him. Revenge for what you stole from him—his daughter.
So you hardened your heart—ruthlessly, violently. Pushed every flicker of memory, every trace of warmth that dared to rise at the sound of his voice, back into the deepest corners of your mind where they belonged. This wasn’t the boy you once loved. This was the leader of Onychinus. This was a man who’d crawled back into your life through shadows and secrets, uninvited and unforgivable.
Your hand didn’t shake when you moved. Not this time.
With a sharp twist of your body, you spun around and shoved the cold barrel of your gun right beneath his chin, forcing his head up just slightly—enough to remind him who had the trigger. The look in your eyes could’ve frozen hell itself, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.
“How?” You demanded, voice low and cracked like thunder rolling over a frozen lake.
How did he find you?
How long had he been watching?
How much did he know?
Your heart quivered with the sheer terror of realizing the life you built—the one you bled for—was no longer safe. And it was about Elea. Always Elea. Because if he found you, he could’ve found her. And if he could find her... he could take her or worse—punish her for what you did.
The fear coiled around your spine like a vice, but you didn’t back down. Not even when he smiled. That dangerous, slow, deliberate smile that tasted like power and venom and memories you hadn’t dared to touch in six years.
He leaned in just slightly, his breath ghosting over your cheek, warm and unwelcome.
“Still clawing like a wildcat.” He murmured, voice low, indulgent—like he was savoring the moment, “I used to love that about you.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with something feral.
“Did you really think distance, years, and silence would erase what you are to me?” Then—quieter, sharper, like a blade pressed to the softest part of you— “And our daughter… did you think you could hide her from me forever?”
Your breath caught. The floor tilted under your feet, and for a split second, your pulse faltered.
But the fear didn’t show—not in your voice, not in your eyes.
“Who said she’s your daughter?” You spat, voice laced with venom and trembling fury.
Your hand trembled, just slightly, where it still held the gun, but your words pierced through. Your voice was sharp, like you are trying to wound him before he can see through your panic
“You think I’d carry the child of a cold-blooded murderer?” You took a step closer, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Much less the spawn of my father’s enemy?”
The room felt too quiet after that, like the world itself was holding its breath for what he’d say next.
Sylus didn’t flinch. He only smiled—slow, cruel, and aching at the edges. But his eyes… his eyes looked like something dying behind glass.
“Then why...” He said softly, “...Does she look exactly like me?”
His voice broke on the last word, barely, but it shattered something unspoken.
“You can lie to yourself, kitten. To everyone else. You’ve had six long years to build a world without me. But every time you looked into her eyes, every time she smiled like I used to—you remembered.”
He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek—not tender, not threatening, just... haunted, “You carved me out of your life… but you couldn’t carve me out of her.”
No point in lying. Of course, Sylus did his homework, he always did. His each and every move was calculated and well thought through. From the words he utters to the glances he takes. He probably had known about you for months, watched over you, over Elea. The thought itself was sickening.
You didn’t move. You didn’t blink. But something inside you twisted — old wounds cracking open beneath the surface. Still, your voice came out steady, too steady, and cold in a way you hadn’t spoken in years.
“Of course she looks like you” You whispered, eyes locked onto his, “So I’ll never forget the biggest mistake of my life.”
His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.
“She’s the reminder I never asked for. The shadow of the past I wish I could erase.” You stepped back, your words deliberate, precise, “But unlike you… I love her enough to keep her far away from the monster that helped make her.”
And there it was. His eyes darkened—no warning, no softness left.
In one swift movement, his hand shot up, gripping your wrist tight, forcing the barrel away from his throat. The gun clattered against the bed behind you with a dull thud.
Before you could react, he turned you around—rough, breathless—and dragged you flush against his chest. His arms locked around you like iron, caging you in as he slowly walked you toward the full-length mirror.
“Look.” He hissed, his breath fanning hot across your ear, his chin grazing your neck like a promise laced in poison, “Look at us.”
You tried to twist away, but he only held you tighter—one arm wrapped firm around your waist, the other bracing your hand against the mirror, forcing you to see the reflection you refused to face.
“What makes you think I’d ever hurt my own blood? Do not confuse me with the man who raised you in fear.” His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with restrained wrath, like a storm pacing behind the bars of his teeth.
“I am many things, kitten.” He whispered, tone dropping like silk dragged across broken glass, “Cruel. Obsessive. Unforgiving. Murderer. But I will never be him.”
The silence that followed was thick. Only your breaths—shallow and quick—fogged the mirror. But you didn’t stay silent.
“She’s my blood too.” Your voice cracked, brittle and brave, “Didn’t you say you loathe the L/Ns? That you want to wipe out every last one of us?”
His grip tensed. You felt his breath falter for a second.
“I do.” He said finally, each word like a stone cast into your ribs, “I do loathe the L/Ns. Every. Last. One.”
He leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing your ear, his breath uneven now—heavy with words that hurt him more than they were meant to hurt you.
“Except the one who ruined my vengeance… by giving it a heartbeat.” A pause. A grip. A confession dressed as damnation, “She’s the only reason I haven’t turned this world to ash.”
Your throat closed. His words sliced through the last of your defences, but you didn’t let yourself crumble. Not yet.
“Don’t twist it into some poetic tragedy” You whispered, your voice low, fraying at the edges, “What we had? It wasn’t love. It was violence pretending to be passion. Don't you dare pretend what we had wasn’t drowning in blood.”
You turned your head, just enough for him to see it—your eyes glassy, but no tears falling.
“If you have even a shred of love for her, don't drag her into your chaos."
Silence. Thicker than the fog outside. The world held its breath. And then—
“No.” He murmured, his lips at your jaw, voice dark and velvet-smooth, “You see, kitten… I’m a very selfish man.”
He released your hand and instead turned your chin gently, angling your face to meet your own eyes in the mirror. Your back pressed into him. His hold— unshakable.
“You thought I’d forget the way you ran?” He said softly, “That I’d let you hide her from me? That I’d let you—of all people—decide if I’m worthy of my own blood?”
His jaw brushed against your temple. You could feel the war inside him. The ache. The storm.
“You call me cruel? Then know this—I’ll burn the world to keep her safe. And I’ll drag you back into hell if that’s what it takes… to make sure she never forgets who her father is.”
“I don’t care how you spin it.” He said, his grip—still iron on your waist, “Lie if you have to. Twist the truth. Bury the past. Perform miracles or magic if that’s what it takes.”
He leaned in, his words threading through the air like silk and steel.
“But by the end of this week, I will be in my daughter’s life.” A beat passed. His breath ghosted along your skin, chilling and warm all at once, “And you are going to make sure of that.”
With a burning kiss pressed to the curve of your neck, he was gone. Silent as smoke. Vanished like a phantom—like he’d never been there to begin with.
You sank to the floor, your knees hitting the haWith a burning kiss pressed to the curve of your neck, he was gone. Silent as smoke. Vanished like a phantom—like he’d never been there to begin with.
You sank to the floor, your knees hitting the hardwood as your breath trembled out of you in jagged shards. The air felt colder. Emptier.
Your world—your carefully built, fragile world—shattered around you, a mirror dropped from too high. Every piece was sharp, reflecting a life you could never go back to. The delusion that you could outrun him… the illusion that you could gift your daughter a normal life, untouched by the blood in her veins… gone.
Ashes, all of it.
Your legs nearly gave out by the time you reached Claire’s porch, the cold nipping at your skin, but it wasn’t the weather that left you breathless—it was everything else. The world that had just come undone.
Claire opened the door before you could even knock. One look at your face and she knew. Of course she did. But she didn’t ask. That was just Claire—quiet as winter snow, steady as stone. She never pried, never pushed, but she was always there. A silent pillar when the world refused to hold you up.
Before the silence could drown you, Elea came bounding out from behind her, cookie crumbs dusted across her cheeks like freckles. Her eyes lit up the moment they saw you—untouched by the chaos you carried, untouched by blood and secrets. She was smiling. Radiant. Like the brightest flower blooming in the heart of a dying garden.
You forced a smile—maybe for her, maybe for yourself.
“Looks like someone had a lot of fun.” You said softly, brushing a crumb from her cheek, “Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to go home.”
“Let’s go, Mommy! Bye, Granny Claire!” Elea chirped, her tiny hand slipping into yours, sticky with sugar and warmth.
Claire gave a small nod, her gaze steady but knowing. She didn’t ask questions—she never did—but her hand brushed your shoulder as you turned. A quiet gesture. I’m here if you need me.
You managed another smile, brittle at the edges, “Thanks, Claire.”
Then you turned away, letting Elea’s excited rambling guide you back through the cold—towards home, towards the storm.
The week passed faster than you would have liked. The deadline was nearing like a bullet train, and before you could even blink, it was already Sunday. You had to break the news to Elea before Sylus got too impatient and did something neither of you would like.
The clock was ticking. And your daughter — your sweet, soft-hearted Elea — was blissfully unaware. So you planned a Sunday outing. One last perfect day. Or maybe you were just being selfish. Maybe you needed the illusion of control before the storm came crashing in.
"Where are we going, mommy?" She chirped, kicking her legs as she sat at the breakfast table, syrup smudged on her cheek.
"Somewhere fun." You smiled tightly, "Your favourite place."
"Are you going to the Elysian Bloom?" Her excitement was so loud, Claire could probably hear it from her bedroom.
You nodded, "Exactly that. Just you and me. No distractions."
Elysian Bloom Conservatory was like heaven on earth — a botanical garden nestled in the heart of Linkon. Elea’s favourite place. It had become a tradition: on her birthday, the two of you would do a picnic at the garden. Well — most of the time, Elea was chasing butterflies or scribbling down flower names in her adorable little notebook.
Now, you wanted to take her there before…Before life changed. Before god knows which direction it would all turn.
The sun was gentle, painting golden streaks across the sky. The scent of blooming jasmine mixed with the earthy perfume of damp grass, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace. Almost.
Elea darted ahead, her laughter echoing through the winding cobblestone path as she chased a bright yellow butterfly. Her curls bounced with every skip of her feet, her notebook swinging from its strap.
You stayed seated on the pastel red picnic blanket which was decorated with Elea's favourite fruit, strawberries, beneath the same white-barked tree the two of you always claimed during your visits — the one by the lotus pond, where dragonflies flitted lazily across the water’s surface.
Your gaze trailed after her, watching her hop over puddles and call out the names of flowers like she was announcing royalty.
“That’s a tiger lily! And that’s… mommy, look! That’s a blue passionflower!” She said, once pointing to the right and then to the left.
“Careful, sweetheart.” You called back, your voice gentle but distant.
Your phone buzzed inside your bag. You didn’t want to look. You already knew. Still, your fingers moved on their own, retrieving the device. A new message lit up the screen — unknown number. But the words were unmistakable.
Tick-tock, little bird. You have till midnight. — S
You stared at it for a moment. No shock. No gasp. Just a quiet, tired ache blooming in your chest. Of course somehow he managed to get your number without your knowledge. He's been sending you at least five reminders each day all week. You weren’t even surprised anymore. You locked the screen without replying — just like all the others.
Elea shrieked with glee in the distance, “He landed on me, Mommy! He landed right on my finger!”
You raised your head, forcing a smile as she ran back to show you. The butterfly had flown away, but the excitement on her face stayed. You brushed her curls behind her ear and kissed her temple.
“That’s because you’re full of sunshine, baby.”
But even sunshine had its shadows. And you could feel yours growing longer with every passing second. You had until midnight. And somehow, you still didn’t know how to tell your daughter that the man sending those messages — the man you ran from — was her father and he was coming.
The rest of the day went surprisingly well. For a few precious hours, the anxiety coiled in your chest loosened its grip. You let yourself laugh when Elea tried to name a flower after herself, let her smear grass stains across her knees without scolding, let her believe the world was as kind as it looked.
On the way home, she tugged your sleeve's hem and pointed to the little corner bakery nestled between a bookstore and a flower shop.
“Can we go in, Mommy? Just for a minute? Please?”
You couldn’t say no to her today. Not today. You parked the car outside. Inside, the smell of warm sugar and fresh cream wrapped around you like a blanket. The display case glittered with pastel frostings and delicate pastries. Elea pressed her nose to the glass.
“They do have it!” She gasped.
“Have what?”
“The strawberry shortcake cupcake! The one with the tiny heart on top! Becky brought some for lunch the other day. It was so yummy.”
Elea had her entire face pressed against the glass, staring down at the cupcakes like they were some kind of treasure. You chuckled, ordering two of the cupcakes, a hot chocolate and a coffee for you. Your stomach still wasn’t sure if it could keep anything sweet down.
As you sat by the window, she picked one cupcake up carefully, like she was examining a diamond—a small, swirled cupcake topped with whipped cream, a single glazed strawberry, and a pink sugar heart. As Elea happily swinging her legs and humming between bites, you tried not to stare too long. Not to memorize her face too hard.
That night, the city outside your window had quieted into a soft hum. Moonlight spilled across the floor in silver ribbons as you and Elea lay in bed, her tiny fingers tangled with yours beneath the blanket.
You had just finished reading The Butterfly Princess for the tenth time — her current favorite. Her eyelids fluttered sleepily, but she was still smiling, her cheeks flushed from all the excitement of the day.
You stroked her hair, your fingers brushing through the soft curls as your chest tightened with everything you still hadn’t said.
“I love you so much.” You whispered.
“I love you more, Mommy.” She giggled, her nose scrunching up in that way it always did.
Your heart ached. You knew if you didn’t say something tonight, you’d never find the strength again.
“Have you ever…” You paused, steadying your breath, “Have you ever wondered about your dad?”
There was a brief silence — not heavy, just thoughtful.
“I have.” She said quietly, “Becky always talks about her daddy… the silly jokes he makes, the games they play.”
Then, with a soft smile, she turned toward you.
“But I have you. The best Mommy in the whole world.”
You swallowed hard, a lump rising in your throat, “I just—sometimes I worry… that you’re missing out.”
“I don't think so. I mean—it will be awesome to have a daddy.” She said with certainty, as if it were the simplest truth,“But you always made me feel like I have everything.”
You blinked up at the ceiling, tears quietly pooling in your eyes. You blinked up at the ceiling, tears quietly pooling in your eyes. You feared the lengths you were willing to go to keep her happy. To keep her protected.
You didn’t say anything more that night. You just kissed her forehead, held her close, and whispered goodnight—All while the clock on the wall ticked quietly toward midnight. Your phone buzzed with another notification—
Your time's up, little bird. Daddy wants to meet his daughter. — S
The whole night you tossed and turned in your bed, sleep did not even graze your eyes. The clock showed 2:38 a.m. when you abruptly sat up on the bed. You frantically searched for your phone till you found it on the night stand. The light from the phone screen lit up your face as you finally found what you were looking for—the unknown number.
The same one that had been sending messages. The one you kept pretending to ignore. Your finger hovered over the call button. Just a tap. One second. That’s all it would take. But once that call connected — there would be no turning back.
You swallow the painful lump collecting in your throat and press on the calling button. Your heart hammered against your ribcage as if it was trying to run away. The phone was cold against your warm ear. It rang and rang and rang. You were seconds away from hanging up when—Click.
Silence. Your mouth opened but no word came out. You didn't think through exactly what you would say to him.
"Sweetheart?" He called—like a question—like a statement. But you couldn't respond. Words were stuck in your throat.
“I’m assuming you’re calling to give me the good news” He said next, voice smooth, calm, calculated, “You told her about me?”
Silence stretched between you like wire — thin, sharp, waiting to snap. You looked at the bedroom door. She was still sleeping.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
No, I haven’t— you uttered in your head but dared not to say out loud. Another pause. This one heavier.
“Tsk.” A soft sound. Not disappointment. Something colder, “Say something. Or do you want me to come over there in the middle of the night?”
A slight shift in tone — playful, with a bite, “I won't mind.”
Your stomach turned. You could almost see the half-smile on his lips, the glint in his eyes. He wasn’t bluffing. You knew that. If you didn’t set the rules, he’d rewrite them himself. You gritted your teeth, jaw tight.
“Be here tomorrow morning.” You said finally, “At 7:30 sharp.”
A beat. No reply. You didn’t wait for one. You had already hung up. The click echoed in your ears like a slammed door. You stared at your reflection in the black screen, heart still thundering, lips parted.
He was coming. He was going to invade your peaceful aviary and you could do nothing but let him—for Elea.
Monday mornings were usually hard but this one was worse. Your stomach was turning and twisting like a damn tornado. The house smelled of pancakes and honey. The pancakes were a little rougher than usual and a little over done. You hadn't meant to leave it on the pan that long, but your hands were shaking too much to work properly.
The clock ticked toward 7:30 a.m. like a countdown to detonation.
You gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, your fingers numb from how tightly you were holding on. Your reflection in the microwave door looked ghost-like — tired eyes, pale skin, expression locked in a look of silent dread.
What did he want? Was this about you? Or her? Did he want revenge? To twist the knife and take the one thing you had built without him? Or worse — did he actually want to be her father? Your mind couldn’t decide which terrified you more.
Sylus Qin doesn’t ask for things. He takes them.
You wanted to throw up. Across the room, Elea sat on the dining table, mindfully chewing away on the pancakes and twirling the new pink bow on her head while she hummed to herself, oblivious to the storm outside the window — and the one inside you.
“Mommy, does this bow look okay?” She asked sweetly.
You turned, forcing a tight smile, “You look perfect, baby.”
She beamed, resuming to absolutely devour the pancakes as if it was like any other day. You'd hate to break that sweet illusion. You moved through the motions — packing her lunch, checking her bag one last time— all while keeping one ear trained toward the front door.
Every creak in the floor. Every car that passed outside. Every second dragged like it wanted to kill you slowly. You hadn’t told her. You couldn’t, not yet. And he— God, he.
You didn’t know what version of Sylus was walking through your door today.
The charming man who once kissed you like you were made of stardust? Or the cold, sharp-mouthed mafia heir who could strip someone of their dignity with a single look?
Your stomach twisted. Would he even look at you the same? Would he blame you? Hate you? Or would he touch Elea’s face, his exact replica, and fall apart?
You didn’t know. You didn’t know anything anymore. But the clock didn’t care.
7:22 a.m.
7:26 a.m.
You couldn’t breathe.
7:29 a.m.
The hallway stretched like a tunnel, your footsteps echoing too loud. And then—Ding. The doorbell rang, right on time—just like he always was.
You stood frozen in the hallway, your hand tightening around the water bottle. Your heart beat so hard it hurt — as if your body recognized the shadow on the other side before your mind could catch up. Elea turned her head towards the door, peeking to see the invited uninvited guest.
One breath. Two. Three. Then you opened the door. And there he was. Sylus Qin.
He looked exactly as you remembered, and somehow, impossibly, even more dangerous than before. Dressed in all black, long coat brushing his thighs, gloves tucked into one pocket, his hair swept back in a way that exposed the sharpness of his cheekbones and the unreadable steel in his eyes.
But what caught you off guard wasn’t the darkness — it was the color.
He was holding two bouquets. In his left hand was a bouquet of red carnations, wrapped in soft parchment, tied with a dark red ribbon. Your favorite. The same kind he used to bring you every Sunday night, just to see the way your eyes lit up.
And in his right hand was a small bundle of soft pink tulips, stems short and ribboned with white lace.
He probably saw the look on your face—surprise, baffled and maybe a little bit of appreciation—because his next words were—
"I hope the few years of separation has not lowered your standards. Though wouldn't be surprised at all. Men these days are quite disappointing aren't they?” He said softly, his gaze raking over you — not in hunger, not in anger. Just… seeing you.
You couldn’t speak. But you did throw him a squinting glance, narrowing your eyes with a look that was somewhere between unimpressed and mildly amused. He grinned — just a flicker at the corner of his lips.
“What?” He asked, cocking his head slightly, voice still velvet-smooth, “Was that look supposed to hurt me?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because gods, the confidence of him. It used to infuriate you. It still did but it also pulled you in like gravity. Even now. He always stood like he owned the world. And more importantly, like he owned you — the softest version of you, the version he saw when no one else was looking.
He stepped forward, just enough to offer you the carnations. Not pushy. Not aggressive. Just quiet insistence.
“Still your favorite I hope.” He said.
You hesitated then took them, nodding your head like a fool. The smell hit you instantly — warm, nostalgic, a little too intimate. You hated how much it hurt. And how much you missed it.
“This one’s a little late,” He added, “Seven years, give or take.”
You hated the way he talked. Like nothing had happened, like the past seven didn't matter to him at all while you broke from inside. He acted as if he was a working man who finally came back to his family. You truly hated it.
And then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he held up the smaller bouquet of pink tulips.
“This one’s for the little girl I'm yet to meet.”
Your heart stopped. You swallowed thickly, glancing over your shoulder — and there she was. Now instead of the dining table, she was peeking over the couch head in the living room.
Her curls bounced a little as she shifted, curious but cautious — like a deer sensing something strange in the air. Elea’s big eyes blinked up at you, and then at the man standing at your doorstep. Sylus followed your line of sight and saw her fully for the first time. Everything in him went still.
His smirk didn’t fall — it just… faded. Like something fragile had taken its place beneath the armor. For the first time since you opened the door, he looked truly breathless.
“She’s…” He cleared his throat, but the word caught somewhere deeper — in his chest, in his ribs, in the place where hope had been dying a slow, silent death for years. Then softer, almost reverent, “She's my daughter? My little one?”
For the first time you heard uncertainty in his voice—almost like a normal human being. Your eyes burned and you looked away. Not out of shame — but out of fear that if you stared at him for too long, you might break. Might forgive.
“Yes.” You whispered.
You hold the door wider for him to come inside. Sylus steps inside, wanting to end the distance between him and his daughter. But he could not be fast. No. After all, Elea, he was still just a stranger. He feels your guarded stare boring on the back of his head as he stepped closer to Elea, gently bending down to her eye level.
"These tulips are for this beautiful lady." He held out the tiny bouquet which now looked weirdly big compared to her.
Elea stared at the tulips in silence, her small fingers curled tightly around her bunny’s worn ear. The bouquet trembled a little in Sylus’s gloved hand, suspended in the space between them — a peace offering from a stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all.
She looked up at you, her brows furrowed slightly, as if asking Is this okay?
You gave her a gentle nod. That was all she needed.
With a tiny step forward, she accepted the tulips, her fingertips brushing his as she took them. Sylus froze — not out of fear, but reverence. Like she’d just touched a thread he didn’t realize was holding him together.
“These are really pretty, thank you Mister.” Elea said softly, examining the petals, “Did you pick them?”
Sylus let out that dramatic long sigh that he always did whenever you asked him to choose between two books only to end up buying both along with three new ones.
"I wish I could but you see....a certain someone was giving me a hard time all week so I only had the time to buy them. But I promise, next time I'll personally hand pick them for you, only the biggest and the prettiest."
"You would?" Elea’s voice was loud but hopeful, like a spark held between cupped palms.
Sylus smiled — a real one this time. Not smirking, not mocking. Just soft.
“Of course I would.” He said, his tone steady, like a vow, “Only the best for you, little lady. I’ll even bring you a basket next time so you can pick your own.”
Her eyes lit up, the kind of joy that was so pure it physically hurt to watch. You felt it stab at something deep in your chest.
She glanced at the tulips again and then asked, earnestly, “Do you give flowers to all the kids you meet?”
Sylus tilted his head thoughtfully, one brow raising, “Nope. Just the important ones.”
You didn’t say anything. Elea was too busy smelling the bouquet to notice the way your fingers curled around the edge of the table, white-knuckled and silent.
“Mommy says flowers can talk sometimes.” Elea said, plopping onto a chair and setting her bunny beside her, “Do these say something too?”
Sylus took a slow step back, folding his arms.
“They say…” He paused, then looked at her seriously, “They say ‘I’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know.’”
You nearly crushed the red flowers in your arms. Elea, thankfully unaware of the emotional weight his words carried, just beamed and said,
“That’s a nice message. Mommy, can we put these in my room?”
"Sure, sweetie. Why don't you keep them there—" You pointed to her room down the hall, "I’ll put them in a vase later."
Elea nodded and hopped off the chair, her bunny tucked under one arm, the bouquet in her hands like it was a royal treasure. She disappeared behind the door and the mood shifted. Sylus followed you to the kitchen, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest.
You placed the bouquet down on the counter, fingers lingering just a little too long. He hadn't spoken yet. Just watched. The way he always did when he was calculating a move.
“You didn’t tell her.” He said finally, “Did you?”
You turned, crossing your arms over your chest like a shield, “No. Not yet.”
“Why?”
The question was simple. Too simple.
“Because I don’t know what you want.” You replied, eyes narrowing, “I don’t know if you’re here to be her father, or if you’re just here to punish me.”
His jaw twitched. Just slightly.
“Is that what you think?” He asked, voice lower now, “That I’d use a child to get back at you?”
“Could you blame me for thinking so? Tell me Sylus—do I have any reason to think that you would not simply end her just because she has my blood?” You snapped before you could stop yourself.
A beat of silence followed.
“So you decided to run away without even a notice?” He said dryly, pushing off the doorframe, "You think Elea would have been safe that way? What would you do if your father got his hands on her?"
You could see it — the shift behind his eyes. The way his breathing changed. His fists clenched at his sides as if he were gripping the edges of his own rage just to keep from shattering something. You didn't like shouting Sylus—or angry Sylus. An angry Sylus was worse than being stuck in a cage with a hungry Shark.
"I don't care what has happened but no one—absolutely no one will get between me and my daughter. Not. Even. You."
You don't know why but those words pierced in places you couldn't tell. Maybe things would have been different if you had talked to Sylus instead of running away but then you remember that night—that conversation that broke the final straw and without any doubt the decision you took was the best for Elea.
You look at him—truly look at him, with determination, "If you want to be in Elea's life then you have to meet some conditions. Can you?"
The distance between you two seemed to get shorter and shorter, he was almost towering over you.
“I’ll give my heart for her.” He said quietly. His voice was stripped bare — no sarcasm, no seduction, just truth, “Whatever conditions you set… they’re nothing compared to that.”
He meant it. Not like a promise. He didn’t ask you to believe him. He didn’t demand forgiveness. He simply laid that truth down between you, like a blade turned into an offering.
You look straight into his eyes, "You won't drag Elea in your world. She should not get even a hint of your or my past. Tell her you are an office worker if you need to."
"Was not planning to either way.” He replied smoothly, a flicker of dry amusement curling at his mouth, "I’m not an idiot, sweetheart."
The nickname still slid off his tongue like silk, but it didn’t sting the way it used to. Not right now. It wasn’t flirtation — it was muscle memory. You stared at him for a long moment, the kind that pressed against your chest until you couldn’t tell if the pressure came from him or your own heartbeat.
“Good.” You said finally, “Because if you ruin this for her… I swear, Sylus—”
“You’ll burn everything to the ground,” He finished, voice low. He tilted his head just slightly. “I know you.”
You hated that he did. You hated even more that part of you still trusted him to mean it. He took one small step back — not in retreat, but in deference. A rare gesture from a man who never stepped back for anyone.
“You have my word.” He said, "Whatever mask I have to wear - I will wear it. For him."
Then, more softly— “And for you, if you’ll let me.”
“My second condition…” Your voice cracked — not enough to be obvious, but enough to sting, “Remember we’re doing this for Elea. Not for us. We’re just… history. And it’s better if it’s forgotten.”
The silence that followed was thick.
The words tasted bitter in your mouth, like rust and old heartbreak — but it couldn’t possibly be worse than that snowy night, the night your entire world shattered beneath your feet. The night you ran. The night you chose survival over sentiment.
Keeping your heart guarded was the only thing left that made sense. For you and for her.
Sylus didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, staring at you — not with anger, not even pain. Just… understanding. And something quieter. Sadder.
“Right.” He murmured, gaze drifting slightly to the floor before rising again to meet yours, “Just history.”
But his voice didn’t sound convinced. Not entirely. He never did take well to pretending. Still, he didn’t push. Didn’t argue. He just looked at you the way he always did when something mattered more than he wanted to admit.
“Then let’s make a new story.” He added, softer, “For her. Just her.”
You gave him a nod. Small. Controlled, “Good.”
Then you moved past him and walked towards the returning figure of Elea. Without a word Sylus followed you to the living room, taking the armchair while you sat with Elea on his right.
You had pondered over it all week, all night yet you were still at loss of the word, "Sweetie, remember I asked you about your dad last night? If you wonder about him?"
"Is Mr. Tulip my dad?"
Her words made you choke on air. So much confidence just like her damned father. Even Sylus had an amused look on his face with raised eyebrows. If a passerby heard—they'd assume she's talking about icecream flavours.
You composed yourself—or at least tried to, "How-how did you know, sweetie?"
To your question your daughter gave the most deadpan face a six year old could muster. She leaned up, whispering—or at least trying to—into your ears, "You have his picture in your drawer with mini hearts on it."
Your jaw dropped. You felt your ears heat instantly, mortification pooling under your skin like boiling water. You darted a quick, horrified glance at Sylus — and, of course, he was watching you like a cat who’d found the cream.
“Picture in your drawer, hm?” He drawled, one eyebrow lifted, “Mini hearts and everything?”
You shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve flayed him alive if he wasn’t already grinning like a devil in a tailored coat.
“It’s an old picture, Lea.” You said quickly, brushing your thumb over her hairline, trying to keep your voice calm, “Mommy just kept it so you’d know what your daddy looked like someday.”
“But you never showed it to me.” She pouted.
Sylus leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his dark eyes softening at her tiny frown.
“That’s fair.” He said gently, “But you know what? I think your mom was just waiting for the right moment. Grown-ups do that a lot — wait too long for things that matter.”
He looked up at you when he said that — not mocking. Just seeing you. And for a fleeting moment, you hated how easy it still was for him to find the softest part of you and press on it like an old bruise.
Elea turned back to Sylus, curiosity brimming in her wide eyes.
“Are you gonna stay this time?” She asked, so plainly it knocked the air out of both of you, “Or are you gonna disappear again?”
Your heart cracked so hard you almost reached for her hand. Sylus heaved that tired—almost disappointed in himself—sigh. He just leaned closer, his voice low, steady — that deadly honesty only he could wield like a vow.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He said, “Not ever again. Not from you.”
Elea seemed to weigh that. Then, in her small, matter-of-fact voice, she nodded — like a tiny queen granting permission.
“Okay. But you have to like bunnies. And no raisins. Ever.”
A laugh — real, quiet, and a little choked — slipped from you before you could stop it. Sylus turned his eyes back to you, and for the briefest second, there it was: the man you’d fallen for, all those years ago, staring at you like history might not be enough to bury this after all.
“No raisins.” He echoed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, “Deal.”
A breath passed between them — so soft you almost didn’t hear it. Then Sylus cleared his throat. The smallest tell that this, of all things, was the one battlefield that could make him hesitate.
“Can I...?" He said, voice pitched low, careful, eyes darting to you for the briefest moment before they softened on her again, “Can I have a hug, little one?”
For a heartbeat, you worried she’d shy away. That she’d hesitate the way you had. But Elea’s eyes lit up like someone had handed her a sparkler in the dark. She gasped, an excited little sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest.
“You want a hug?” She squeaked, clutching her bunny tighter, “From me?”
Sylus’s lips twitched, his composure fraying at the edges in the best way. He let out a quiet breath — like he’d been holding it for years.
“Yeah.” He murmured, smiling just a little now, “From you. If that’s alright.”
Elea didn’t even answer with words. She bounced forward on her socked feet, bunny nearly slipping from her arm as she threw both arms around his neck in a small, clumsy tackle. Sylus caught her instantly, his coat rustling, one hand splaying wide across her tiny back as if to make sure she wouldn’t vanish if he blinked.
For a second, he just stayed there — standing in the middle of the living room, this dangerous man letting his guard down for a child who smelled like syrup and strawberry shampoo. His eyes slid shut, his forehead dropping to rest against her curls, breathing her in like she was the only clean air left in the world.
“Hi, little one ” He whispered, the words caught between a promise and a prayer, “Hi.”
Elea giggled, completely unaware of the way your eyes burned or the way Sylus’s jaw trembled against her hair.
“You smell like Mommy’s flowers.” She said into his shoulder, her voice muffled and warm, “I like you.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from sobbing right there. Sylus pulled back just enough to see her face, his thumb brushing her cheek — impossibly gentle for hands that had seen so much blood.
“I like you too.” He said softly. Then he cleared his throat and added, with that wry grin curling back at the edges, “And Bunny, of course.”
Elea pulled away, beaming, bunny squished between them, “Bunny says hi, Daddy.”
Elea turned her head just enough to beam at you over her shoulder. Her tiny hands patted his chest like she was preparing some grand announcement.
“Mommy!” She chirped, “You have to come too! Family hug!”
Before you could protest, those marshmallow—like fingers grabbed your wrist and tugged you forward — right into them. You caught your breath as you felt Sylus’s other arm snake around your waist to steady you, palm splayed wide and warm at the small of your back.
You almost pulled away. Almost.
But then Elea’s giggles bubbled between you, her bunny wedged awkwardly as she tried to wrap her arms around both your necks at once.
So you stayed.
And that’s when you felt it: the slow, deliberate way Sylus’s thumb traced a half-circle against your hipbone. The press of his chest so close you could feel his heartbeat — that steady, dangerous thing that had once been yours to calm. And then, before you could stop it, the softest drag of his nose through your hair — a brush of breath at your temple like he was memorizing the scent of you, grounding himself with it.
“Still smells like me.” He murmured, voice so low you felt it rather than heard it. His lips didn’t quite touch your skin, but you swore you could feel the heat of them, “Always did.”
Your fingers dug into the back of his coat, not pulling him closer — not quite pushing him away either. It would’ve been too much — too real — if not for Elea giggling again, smushing her bunny’s ear against your cheek.
“Mommy, you’re squishing Bunny!”
You huffed out a breath that was half-laugh, half-shaky exhale, and loosened your grip just as Sylus did too — but his hand didn’t leave your waist right away. It lingered, thumb sweeping over the fabric of your shirt like he was marking it.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes met yours — and you hated how they looked: warm and dark and filled with a thousand unsaid things.
You stepped away first. Because you had to. But for a heartbeat, you swore you still felt him. All of him.
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