Lotus @lotus-n-l0ve - Tumblr Blog

Oct 23, 2025

CHAPTER 6

— 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.

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNING & TAGS : Dad! Sylus, mom!reader, mafia, rivalry, second chance, secret baby, exes, time skip, past lovers, alternate universe, angst, fluff, romance, love, mature language, stalking, threats, run away! y/n, mentions of pregnancy, blood, gore, dark romance, lovers to strangers, enemies to lovers, their daughter Elea, nightmare, mention of blood, y/n almost drowned, 18.9k words.

*⁠.⁠✧— NAVIGATION // LOVE & DEEPSPACE MASTERLIST

➥ KISSED IN POISON : THE SERIES

➥ CHAPTER 5 // CHAPTER 6 // CHAPTER 7

➥ Heart Divider's By @/cafekitsune

DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

[PRESENT TIME, LINKON CITY]

“The temperature has come down a lot.” Sylus muttered to himself, eyes scanning the thermometer with a furrowed brow.

You almost sensed a hint of disappointment in his tone. Asshole! Was he hoping for you to stay sick so he could take Elea away from you? Like hell you would let that happen. Over your dead body.

You sat at the dining table, legs curled under the oversized hoodie. The lavender scent of the laundry detergent helped you to relax your mind. Across from you say Elea, absolutely devouring the waffles with delight. Syrup smeared on her chubby cheeks like wet paint. She was humming to herself, soulfully lost in her sugary world.

Sylus stood before you, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a matching silk shirt. Some formal unlike the sweatpants and shirts he had been wearing since moving in with you two. The back of his hand felt so cold against your warm cheeks, you would have almost moaned there, had the circumstances been different.

“Still a little warm.” He murmured, more to himself than to you, “But not burning up anymore.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, eyes narrowing as something caught your attention. Ever since you woke up, something about him was bugging you but you couldn't tell exactly what until a flash reflected from the gold rim of his glasses.

“Why are you wearing glasses?” Your voice was quiet, curious, even a little suspicious, “Your eyesight was fine two days ago.”

He blinked, as if he’d forgotten he had them on. He nervously touched them, averting his eyes elsewhere. Sylus Qin and nervous? Either the doomsday was here or the cold had given you schizophrenia.

“I was just reading some documents earlier, sweetheart.” He quickly disappeared into the kitchen.

Something about his tone told you he was lying. Or maybe you were just being paranoid. What about glasses would he lie about. And you had seen him use reading glasses millions of times before.

Sylus came out with another plate of waffles and a glass of milk. He set them down in front of you on the table.

“Can you eat by yourself? Or should I feed you, sweetheart?”

You looked at him, your lips twitching at the corners despite yourself.

“I can eat by myself.” You replied, snatching up the fork with a little more force than necessary.

“As you wish.” He murmured, the hint of a smirk ghosting over his face as he sat beside you. But his eyes lingered, watching you too closely for something as simple as breakfast.

You took a bite. The waffles were warm, slightly crispy on the edges — his doing, clearly. You remembered the first time he cooked for you, long before Elea came into the picture. You’d woken up to the house being filled with the mouth-watering aroma.

“These are good.” You said, without looking up.

“Of course they are.” He replied smoothly, sipping from his coffee, “Your fever didn’t touch your taste buds, thankfully.”

You rolled your eyes, but it was hard to stay annoyed when his voice dropped to that particular lazy drawl he only used when he was trying to soften you.

Elea, now on her third waffle and very little self-control, decided to speak between mouthfuls.

“Daddy?” Elea called out mid-bite.

Sylus hummed, sipping on the espresso, “Yes, my love?”

Elea swung her little legs under the chair, syrup still glistening on her cheeks, “When will Mephie be back? He was gone when I woke up.”

You blinked, “Mephie?”

She nodded so vigorously a drop of syrup flew off her fork.

“Yeah, Mommy. Mephisto is a robot crow! Daddy brought him last night so I wouldn’t feel scared alone.” Her voice pitched upward in excitement, eyes wide like she was retelling the plot of her favorite cartoon.

You felt your fork still in your hand. Mephisto. Of course you knew who that was. Everyone in Onychinus did. So did you. But you schooled your features into polite confusion, “A… robot crow?”

Elea leaned forward, conspiratorial, “Uh-huh. He played lullaby for me. And his eyes glow red like laser beams! He sat on the window all night and told me stories. He’s really nice, Mommy.”

Beside you, Sylus’s coffee cup paused midair. His gaze flicked briefly toward you, just long enough for you to catch the faintest shadow of wariness behind the gold rims of those glasses. Then, as if nothing had passed between you, he set the cup down and smoothed his expression back into that maddeningly calm neutrality.

“Mephisto had to… take care of something.” Sylus said evenly, resting a casual arm along the back of your chair, “But he’ll be back before bedtime.”

Elea nodded, entirely satisfied with that answer, and returned to the pressing matter of finishing her waffles.

You took another slow bite, chewing while keeping your gaze fixed on Sylus. He didn’t meet your eyes. Your fever might’ve gone down, but something else was heating up in your chest — a very bad feeling you couldn’t yet name.

You leaned toward him, your fork clinking against the porcelain as you set it down. Your voice was low, sharp, every word bitten through clenched teeth.

“Why don’t we just take Elea to N109 Zone and announce to all your enemies that you have a daughter? Speed up the process of her death, you see.”

Sylus stilled. The smirk he’d worn moments ago vanished like smoke smothered by a sudden wind. His hand — the one draped so lazily across the back of your chair — curled into a fist, knuckles whitening.

“Sweetheart…” His voice was velvet stretched thin over barbed wire, “You know I would never do that.”

You arched a brow, refusing to let the carefully measured tenderness in his tone disarm you.

His gaze flicked to Elea, who was too busy humming over her sticky fork to notice the storm brewing at the table. Then his eyes came back to you — dark, burning, unblinking, the kind of look that pinned you to the spot and dared you to breathe.

“Mephisto was there to protect her.” Sylus continued, quieter now, “Because I was too busy… taking care of a sick kitten.”

The way he said it — kitten — made your pulse falter, betraying you. It was a word meant to soften you, to remind you of the nights he’d dragged you into the safety of his arms, of the dangerous tenderness he reserved only for you. But your chest burned too hot for softening.

You leaned closer, your whisper venomous, “I didn’t ask you to. You could have stayed with her. I would have managed — like I have these past seven years.”

For the first time that morning, Sylus Qin looked as though you had struck him. His lips parted, then pressed into a hard line. A muscle feathered in his jaw.

Sylus set his fork down, voice calm but firm.

“Sweetheart, I’m not fighting with you about this right now. We have an important day ahead. You’re going to finish your breakfast like a good girl—”

You arched a brow, sipping your coffee, “Did you just call me a good girl? What am I, your dog?”

Sylus leaned back in his chair, unfazed by your glare.

“No, you’re my cat. Temperamental, impossible to train, claws out half the time.” He smirked, sliding the syrup closer to Elea, who was clearly trying not to laugh, “Anyways — then you’ll take your medicines and get ready so we can leave for Elea’s school.”

You clicked your tongue dramatically, “A cat? Really? Cats don’t do what they’re told.”

“Exactly.” Sylus said smoothly, “That’s why I said my cat. You always scratch, but you still come back to me.”

Elea giggled into her orange juice.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Keep talking, dragon boy, and see how fast I scratch your face in public.”

Sylus gave a low chuckle, leaning forward just enough for his voice to drop, “Sweetheart, you threatening me in front of our daughter makes me want to kiss you, not stop you.”

Elea groaned loudly, “Ugh, please daddy, not at breakfast!”

That shut you up — if only because your cheeks were burning. Sylus grinned, very aware he’d won this round.

I will take care of you later.

You thought, glaring at Sylus over the rim of your milk glass. He caught the look, of course, and his grin widened as if he'd plucked the thought right out of your head.

You stabbed the last bite of pancake like it had personally wronged you, muttering curses under your breath that made Elea snicker and Sylus hum with smug amusement. He leaned back in his chair, clearly savoring the victory of getting you to eat and lose the verbal sparring match.

“Done?” He asked smoothly, as if he wasn't the reason behind your sour mood.

“Done with breakfast. Not done plotting your murder.” You shot back, pushing your plate away.

“Sweetheart, if you wanted me dead, you would have killed me long ago.”

You rolled your eyes and stood, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a comeback. If you did, you’d never make it out the door on time. Instead, you busied yourself getting ready, layering on clothes and a touch of makeup. By the time you walked downstairs, Sylus and Elea were already by the car.

And of course, that car.

The sleek black thing waiting in the driveway was a weapon of memory. Your stomach gave a small twist, a reminder you didn’t need. Same leather seats, same wood-scented cologne clinging to the upholstery, same steering wheel Sylus had gripped the first time he’d driven you out on what had passed for your “first date.”

You blinked hard and shoved the thought down where it belonged. No use digging up old feelings, not when your whole persona depended on reminding yourself he was the enemy.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you kept your face neutral, your posture stiff. Sylus, of course, noticed anyway. His sharp eyes flicked toward you as he started the engine, the faintest curve tugging at his lips.

“Comfortable?” He asked, like he already knew the answer.

“Perfectly fine.” You said flatly, adjusting your skirt just to have something to do with your hands.

The drive was mostly quiet, Elea chatting in the backseat about her school project while Sylus occasionally asked her questions. You stared out the window, clinging to sarcasm as a shield against the nostalgia clawing at you.

When the school came into view, Elea practically bounced in her seat.

“We’re here!” She announced, as if neither of you could see the giant gates ahead.

Sylus pulled up smoothly to the front. Parents and kids were milling around, teachers greeting students. Elea scrambled to gather her bag, still babbling about how her teacher promised to read her story aloud today.

Sylus killed the engine, his hand resting casually on the gearshift. His gaze slid to you again, sharp and quiet.

“Ready to play the picture-perfect parents?”

You shot him a tight smile, unbuckling your seatbelt, “Oh, don’t worry, darling. I’ll make us look so good people will forget you’re insufferable.”

He chuckled low, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

You stepped out of the car before your traitor of a heart could remind you of another night, another drive, when he’d reached across the console just to lace your fingers with his.

The halls of Elea’s school buzzed with morning chatter, little shoes squeaking against polished floors and the occasional laughter bouncing off the high ceilings. You walked beside Sylus, Elea between you, clutching her bag with excitement.

And then it happened.

Without any warning, Sylus’s arm slid around your waist, firm and possessive, pulling you snug against his side as if you were some trophy he’d won years ago and never intended to give back.

You stiffened immediately, shooting him a glare.

“Really?” You hissed under your breath, trying to wriggle free.

“Yes, really.” He murmured smoothly, eyes forward as though nothing were out of the ordinary, “Would you rather I let people think I'm not absolutely smitten for my wife?”

“I’d rather they didn’t think you own me.” You jabbed your elbow lightly at his ribs, to no avail. His hold only tightened, the warmth of his palm against your waist a maddening brand.

“Sweetheart...” He drawled, lowering his head just enough for his words to brush your ear, “I owned you, but you certainly own me.”

Your cheeks heated despite yourself. Damn him.

Teachers and students passing by couldn’t help but stare. It wasn’t just Sylus’s looks—it was his presence. Dark suit, gold-rimmed glasses catching the light, every step exuding the kind of controlled dominance that made people instinctively part ways in the hall. Parents whispered, students gawked, and every teacher who passed greeted him with a mix of politeness and unease.

Elea, oblivious, waved before skipping into her classroom, “Bye Mommy, bye Daddy!”

You waved back, forcing a smile, while Sylus merely inclined his head in that way that somehow carried more weight than a dozen words.

The moment the door shut behind her, you gave his hand one last pointed tug, “Now let go before I bite you.”

Sylus only smirked, “I'd take bullets from you.”

But finally, he loosened his grip—just enough to slide his hand down and rest it at the small of your back instead, guiding you like you’d simply belonged there. You muttered curses under your breath all the way to the principal’s office.

The principal, a frail old man with a receding hairline and spectacles perched too low on his nose, scrambled to his feet the moment you stepped in.

“Ah, Mrs. Lyn!” He greeted warmly, his wrinkled face folding into a polite smile.

His gaze slid to Sylus, lingered for a beat too long, then darted back to you with a flicker of confusion — as though he couldn’t quite decide if Sylus was a bodyguard, a visiting official, or simply someone far too out-of-place for the humble office.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?” The principal asked, tone formal but kind.

Before you could answer, he gestured toward the two wooden chairs in front of his desk, “Please, do take a seat.”

Sylus guided you forward with a light pressure at the small of your back, every movement deliberate, as though this wasn’t the principal’s office at all but his own. He waited until you sat before lowering himself into the chair beside you, his tall frame making the old furniture look almost comically undersized.

The principal adjusted his spectacles nervously, eyes flicking once more between the two of you. His confusion was palpable, though he said nothing — at least, not yet. You cleared your throat before the silence grew too heavy.

“Mr. Young, this is my husband, Sylus Qin.” You said evenly, forcing a small smile, “Elea’s father.”

The principal cleared his throat, still looking puzzled as he adjusted his spectacles, “Her father? But...there is no record of Elea’s father in our database.”

You offered a calm smile, the kind you’d perfected over years of deflecting questions you didn’t want answered.

“That’s because Sylus is an agent of the Farspace Fleet.” You explained smoothly, as though it were the most natural truth in the world, “He was deported on a classified mission. Completely off the grid. We… couldn’t disclose his information for obvious reasons.”

At that, the principal’s brows shot up, surprise flickering over his face. He leaned back slightly, nodding with newfound respect.

“Ah. I see, I see. That explains it, then.” His voice dropped as if the word confidential carried its own weight in the room.

Slowly, his gaze shifted to Sylus, taking in the man’s commanding posture, the sharp lines of his suit, and the subtle aura of danger he carried with him. The principal’s voice softened, almost deferential.

“Then… you must know Colonel Caleb Xia? He also serves under the Fleet and his daughter is a student here.”

For a beat, silence lingered. The air grew heavier, the old man watching Sylus intently, as though measuring the truth in his eyes. But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t so much as blink. His hand, still resting casually on your waist, gave the slightest squeeze as he leaned forward.

“Yes.” He said evenly, his voice smooth, steady, unshakable, “We are well acquainted.”

There was no hesitation, no crack in his tone. If anything, his delivery carried such confidence that it almost dared anyone to doubt him.

The principal, clearly satisfied, let out a soft chuckle, rubbing his hands together, “Wonderful, wonderful. Connections with the Fleet are always an honor. You must have extraordinary stories, Mr. Qin.”

Sylus gave a small, polite smile, though his eyes never left the man’s, “Perhaps another time.”

You straightened in your chair, forcing a cordial smile, “Actually, Mr. Young, the reason we came today was simple. We’d like to have Sylus added to the official pick-up list for Elea. Since he’ll be doing that frequently now, it would save a lot of confusion at dismissal.”

The principal blinked, adjusting his spectacles again as he scribbled something onto the folder open on his desk.

“Ah, yes, of course. A very practical request.” His pen hovered mid-stroke before his eyes flicked back up to Sylus, still cautious, still measuring, “We’ll need identification for verification purposes. Standard procedure, you understand.”

Sylus inclined his head, his expression unreadable.

“Naturally.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and, with deliberate ease, produced an identification card embossed with the Fleet insignia. It gleamed faintly under the office light.

Luke and Kierran sure out did themselves. Even the higher official wouldn't be able to differentiate between this one and an original Fleet id.

The principal’s brows rose. He didn’t even take it at first — almost afraid to touch it — before finally receiving it with both hands like it was some kind of relic. His lips moved silently as he read the neatly printed name and credentials.

“Impressive…” He murmured, returning it with both hands, almost reverent. “Well, that certainly clears any doubts. I’ll have the office add you immediately, Mr. Qin.”

You exhaled, subtly relieved. The lie had taken root.

Sylus, however, only rested back in his chair, the corner of his mouth tugging in the faintest shadow of a smirk, his fingers brushing along your waist as though reminding you — he had everything under control.

Another half an hour and you two were finally good to leave. Half an hour of making up torturous lies about Sylus. You could bet your life that he was enjoying every second of you frantically creating fictional stories to quench Mr. Young's curiosity.

You come out of the office first. The feeling of claustrophobia was creeping up on you, making it unbearable for you to stay there any more. Your steps were hasty and fast. Meanwhile Sylus trailed after you leisurely. His hands resting in the pockets.

“You look so adorable, making up stories for me.” He said with that smug smile on his face.

You stopped dead on your track with half the mind to blow a punch through his stomach. But the consequences would affect Elea so you gulped down the annoyance and hurried out of the hallway but not before throwing back a snarky remark.

“Yeah, laugh it up, Sylus. Next time I’ll tell them you’re just my chauffeur, filling in for my actual husband.”

You tossed the words over your shoulder as you strode ahead, the click of your shoes a sharp metronome to your irritation.

For a beat there was nothing but the muffled murmur of other parents and the echo of your own footsteps. You had almost reached the car when Sylus’s steps closed the distance behind you — quiet, deliberate, a shadow falling over you.

“Your… actual husband?” His voice was quiet, almost pleasant, but the thread of steel beneath it sent a shiver up your spine.

You smirked, refusing to look back, “Mhm. Tall, handsome, makes less of a nuisance of himself—”

Before you could finish the sentence, his hand was at your lower back, fingers curling around the small of you with a possessive, public claim. He pulled you sharply until your whole body bumped into his. The world narrowed to the heat of him, the smell of cedar and something darker, and the low timbre of his voice at your ear.

“Sweetheart—” He murmured, so close your breath trembled, “If such a man existed, I’d bury him before he had the chance to look at you twice.”

The words were half joke, half promise — and entirely his.

Your pulse tripped; even the hallway noise seemed to dip and take a breath, “What are you doing? We are in public, Sylu—”

His hand tightened, knuckles pressing soft circles against your hip as if to reassure you that he meant both.

“Because no one gets to pretend they belong to you except me.” He said, low and dangerously calm.

Heat pooled low in your stomach, unbidden, unwanted. It was a deep, molten ache that started low and spread outward, treacherous in its familiarity. He always did this — always found the exact string to pluck, the exact word to breathe that sent your nerves skittering like live wires under your skin.

Damn him. Damn him for still knowing exactly how to unravel you with a single sentence.

You swallowed hard, trying for a scoff, but your voice betrayed you with the faintest tremor.

“You. Are. Insane.” You whispered, though it lacked the venom you’d meant to lace it with.

Sylus’s eyes — those storm-dark eyes — held yours, unblinking. His hand slid higher, curling just beneath your ribs, thumb grazing the underside of your breast with shameless familiarity, a touch that carried echoes of a thousand other nights you had sworn you’d buried.

“For you — yes, I am.” He murmured, and there was no apology in his voice, only a quiet truth, “And if I remember correctly — you loved that about me.”

You shoved at his chest at least you tried to — but the move only pressed you back against the car behind you. Cold metal bit into your back. His body boxed you in completely, tall, immovable, heat radiating from him like a furnace. The hallway was full of muted sounds — parents talking, the distant echo of shoes on tile — but around you the air hummed with his presence, sharp and electric.

“That was before you destroyed everything.” You spat, eyes blazing even as your pulse thundered with something far less righteous. Your words cracked in the middle; you hated that he would hear it.

For a fraction of a second, his face twisted — anger, regret, hunger, all warring in the sharp set of his jaw. The mask slipped just long enough to show a flash of something raw. Then, like always, his lips curved into a dark, knowing smirk.

“And yet…” His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there as if it had a gravity all its own, “…your pulse still trips for me. Just like mine does for you.”

Your nails dug into your palms. God help you, he wasn’t wrong. He could probably feel your heart pounding through the thin fabric between you.

You forced a brittle smile, hoping it masked the shiver that went through you, “Maybe it’s just the thought of that imaginary husband.”

His hand tightened, a promise disguised as a caress, “Then pray he stays imaginary. Because I don’t share, sweetheart. Not now. Not ever. Not you.”

The words settled over you like water, heavy and clinging. For a heartbeat you just stared at him, the sidewalk and sun's fluorescent lights blurring at the edges of your vision.

“Don’t.” You said finally, though your voice lacked force, “Don’t do this. Not here. Not now.”

He tilted his head, the faintest shadow of amusement on his mouth, but his eyes… his eyes were no longer amused. They were sharp, cutting, like a blade honed for a single purpose.

“Where, then?” He asked quietly, “Where do I remind you who you’re trying to pretend you don’t want?”

“I don’t want you.” The lie left your lips, brittle as glass.

He chuckled under his breath, a low, dangerous sound, “You’re a terrible liar.”

His thumb brushed a slow circle against your side, maddeningly gentle. Each sweep of his skin over yours sent sparks up your spine, uncoiling memories you’d tried to bury: the smell of rain on his skin, his hands gripping your waist in the dark, the sound of his laugh before everything went to hell.

You jerked your head away, but his scent was already in your lungs, cedar and smoke and something darker, something you’d once thought of as home.

“You have no right.” You hissed.

He leaned in, the tip of his nose grazing your temple, his voice a velvet threat, “I have every right. You gave it to me when you gave me everything. Even when you ran, you stayed mine.”

“Yours?” You echoed, a tremor slipping into the word, “I’m not yours, Sylus. Not anymore.”

He gave a soft, disbelieving hum, “Even if you say it again and again, it will not become the truth. You were mine. You are mine and you will remain mine till the end of time and after.”

Your hands were pressed flat against his chest now, not pushing but holding, as if that alone could keep a safe distance. His heart beat steady under your palms, strong, infuriatingly familiar. You hated that your body remembered the rhythm.

“You don’t get to waltz back into my life and—”

“—And claim what’s mine?” He cut you off, voice low and seething, but the way his thumb stroked your side belied the temper simmering underneath, “I think I do.”

You exhaled sharply, tried to twist away, but he moved with you, a shadow anticipating every escape. The car door rattled softly under your back.

“Stop it,” You said, “People will see—”

“Let them.” He murmured, “Let them see whose name you have curved so deep into your heart.”

The breath caught in your throat. It was an ambush, the intimacy of the memory, and he knew it. He watched the flicker in your eyes like a predator catching the twitch of prey. You hated him for it. Hated that a part of you still ached to lean into him, still remembered how his hands could be both a cage and a sanctuary.

“I hate you.” You whispered.

He gave a low, humorless laugh, “No, sweetheart. You hate that you still want me.”

His forehead touched yours now, a gentle collision.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” He said softly, “Tell me you don’t feel me still here, still under your skin.”

You closed your eyes for a heartbeat, fighting the images that rose — his hand sliding up your thigh in a darkened corner, his mouth against your collarbone, the sound of your name torn from his throat.

“I can’t do this.” You breathed.

“Then stop pretending.” He whispered, “Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself.”

You shoved him then, harder this time, and he let you go, stepping back with a look you couldn’t quite read — equal parts fury and hunger and something almost like pain.

You straightened your clothes, forcing your voice steady, “Stay away from me.”

He smiled, but it was a sharp, broken thing, “We both know I won’t.”

Without waiting for him, you yanked open the passenger door and slipped inside, slamming it shut harder than necessary. The leather seat groaned beneath you, and you stared stubbornly ahead through the windshield, refusing to look at him when he slid in behind the wheel.

Sylus started the car with the kind of calm efficiency that made you want to scream. His silence wasn’t silence at all; it was pressure, heavy and deliberate, reminding you of everything unsaid between you.

The engine purred to life. He pulled out of the school’s lot, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. The city slid past your window in a blur of pale morning light and muted traffic.

Fifteen minutes later, he broke the silence, “We need groceries.”

You stayed quiet. Too busy with your scattered emotions to give him any mind.

The supermarket smelled of disinfectant, overripe fruit, and that faint hum of fluorescent lighting that always seemed to buzz just a little too loud. Families milled about with carts, elderly couples moved slowly down the aisles, and a gaggle of teenagers lingered near the refrigerated drinks.

Sylus walked like he owned the place. Even without trying, he drew eyes. People moved aside as though his presence alone shifted the air. You hated it. Hated that even here, in a mundane grocery store, he stood out like a storm rolling through a field.

You trailed him with a trolley in his hands, tossing items in with more force than necessary. Bread. Milk. Pasta. Cereal. He added things silently, his movements efficient, but you could feel the smirk lingering on his face every time you reached around him to grab something, brushing his arm by accident.

It happened near the produce section. You were rounding the corner, distracted, when you bumped into someone. Hard.

“Oh—sorry.” You blurted instantly, steadying yourself and your basket.

The man you’d collided with was in his forties, balding, wearing a cheap polo stretched too tight over his stomach. His face twisted in irritation.

“Watch where the hell you’re going, woman.” He snapped.

You blinked, still polite, “I'm sorry. Truly.”

He sneered, stepping closer, “Sorry doesn’t fix stupidity. Christ, women these days—more worried about their looks than paying attention. What are you even doing here? Buying makeup instead of food?”

Something cold prickled along your skin. You straightened, lips parting to retort, but Sylus was already there.

One moment he’d been at the other end of the cart. The next, his hand was clamped over the man’s shoulder, grip tight enough that the man winced.

“What did you just say to her?” Sylus’s voice was quiet. Too quiet.

The air around him shifted, darker, heavier. The fluorescent lights seemed to dim. Shoppers in the nearest aisles suddenly found reasons to leave, pushing their carts hurriedly in the opposite direction.

The man sputtered, eyes darting up at Sylus’s towering frame, “I—I was just—she ran into me—”

Sylus tilted his head, smile — sharp and terrifying, “And that gave you the right to speak to her like that?”

The man tried to shrug off his grip. Couldn’t. Sylus’s fingers tightened, knuckles pale. The scent of ozone burned faint in the air — evol, just beneath his skin, pressing against the seams of his control.

You felt it before anyone else. That low thrumming vibration that meant danger, that meant the dark energy in him was close to the surface. The space around him warped slightly, like heat rising off asphalt.

He was seconds away from tearing this stranger apart. You acted without thinking.

Your hand shot out, catching his shoulders, “Sylus.”

He didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the man, pupils blown wide, the edges of his irises glowing faint gold. The power was there, rising, a storm threatening to break.

You squeezed harder, nails biting into his skin, “Sylus. It's not worth it.”

It was like dragging someone out of a trance. Slowly — agonizingly slowly — his gaze shifted from the trembling man to you. And the storm in his eyes… softened.

You held his gaze, heart hammering, “He’s not worth it. Let him go.”

For a long beat, he said nothing. Just stared at you, his jaw clenched, power still simmering. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose and released the man’s shoulder with a sharp shove.

The man stumbled back, rubbing his arm, eyes wide with terror. He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue — but Sylus took one step forward, and the man bolted, half-running down the aisle without looking back.

The supermarket was silent again, the hum of the lights returning. You realized you were still clutching Sylus’s wrist. Slowly, you let go. His skin was hot under your fingers, pulsing with restrained power.

You swallowed, “You can’t just go after every rude stranger you meet.”

His mouth curved into something dark, “Why not?”

“Because we’re not in your world anymore.” You snapped, forcing your voice steady, “This is Elea’s world. Normal. Safe. You don’t get to drag your violence into it.”

For a second, his expression twisted — anger, frustration, but also… something softer, something vulnerable.

“He insulted you.”

“So what?” You shook your head, “Men like that insult women every day. I don’t need you to fight every battle for me.”

“Yes, you don't but I do.” He said quietly, intensely, “Because I can’t stand the thought of anyone talking to you like that. Touching you. Even breathing wrong in your direction.”

The heat in his words slammed into you. Possessive. Dangerous. Raw.

Your chest tightened. You wanted to scream at him, wanted to tell him to stop, but your body remembered every time he’d spoken to you like that before. In the shadows of your families’ oblivion, when wanting each other had been both salvation and sin.

You looked away, throat tight, “You really are crazy.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear, “I’m crazy for you. Always have been.”

Your fingers tightened on the basket handle. You wanted to run. You wanted to stay. You wanted him to stop looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Let’s just… finish shopping.” You said finally, forcing the words out, “Before someone calls the cops.”

He chuckled low, but didn’t push further. Still, as you moved down the aisle, you felt it — the weight of his gaze burning against your back, the storm of his possessiveness held barely in check. And despite yourself… part of you still burned for it.

The paper bags slid into the trunk with a soft rustle, and you dusted your hands, satisfied.

Sylus stood beside you, silent, the sharp lines of his shoulders drawn taut in a way only you — only someone who once knew every corner of him — would recognize. But you were too preoccupied with checking out the grocery list in your head, to notice the storm tightening its grip inside him.

His blood was boiling over. From the moment that man’s voice cut across the aisle—dripping with disdain, spitting filth at you as though you were less than nothing—Sylus had been replaying the scene, each word gouging deeper into his mind.

He spoke to her.

He dared to raise his voice.

He looked at her as though he had to be in her presence.

His jaw flexed as his eyes followed the man now striding toward a dented sedan two rows away. He watched him fumble with his keys, oblivious, alive. Too alive. Sylus’s fingers twitched once at his side, the faint tremor invisible to you but heavy with restraint.

You don’t get to walk away.

You don’t get to spit venom at her and return to your pathetic little life as though nothing happened.

No one disrespects my Y/N.

He should have ended him right there, in the store, where the bastard’s blood could have painted the tiles, a warning carved in bone. But then — your hand. Soft, warm, pressed against his wrist. The only tether strong enough to hold him back.

He’d obeyed you, just for that moment. Not for mercy. Never for mercy. But because your eyes had asked him to.

And yet… the rage hadn’t left. It festered, a storm swelling beneath his ribs.

You don’t speak her name. You don’t breathe in her direction. You don’t exist in her presence unless I allow it.

The man slammed his car door, muttering to himself. Started the engine. The growl of it reached Sylus like a taunt.

You think you’re safe now. You think you’ve escaped me.

Sylus tilted his head, the faintest shadow of a smirk brushing his mouth.

But you’ve already signed your death warrant the moment your tongue touched her name.

“Done?” Your voice chirped lightly beside him. You turned, dusting your hands, unaware of the predator standing inches from you.

“Almost.” He murmured, his tone smooth, unreadable. He reached to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, the gesture gentle, intimate—disguise for the violence simmering just beneath his skin, “Let's go, sweetheart.”

You smiled faintly, the awkward feeling settling heavy in your stomach. You were fighting a whole another battle within you. The door clicked shut behind you.

As you both settled inside the car, Sylus’s gaze snapped back to the sedan pulling out through the rare–view.

The distance was perfect. Far enough that you wouldn’t see, near enough that Sylus could feel the pulse of the man’s heartbeat thrumming like prey under his claws. His hands curled once around the steering wheel, but his focus wasn’t on the leather beneath his palms — it was on the fragile lattice of metal, glass, and flesh that made up the man’s fragile existence.

Inside him, something cold and merciless unfurled. His Evol coiled like smoke, invisible but hungry, answering the silent command of his wrath.

You’ll learn.

The world will learn.

Disrespect her, and you cease to exist.

The car down the lane shook, almost imperceptibly at first, like a breath caught in a throat. The man frowned, tapping the dash, oblivious to the doom pressing in on him.

Sylus’s lips curved into a smile, dark and quiet.

Goodbye.

The car shuddered violently. Metal groaned, buckling inward as if the very air around it were crushing down. The man screamed. A high, panicked sound that only made Sylus’s smirk widen.

The tires burst one after another, exploding with sharp pops. Sparks lit as the frame collapsed in on itself. Inside, the man clawed at the door handle, his face twisted in terror as though he were trapped in an invisible coffin.

And then — A wet, grotesque sound tore through the air. His body convulsed once. Then again. Then it ruptured from the inside out.

Blood painted the windshield in great splatters before the entire vehicle detonated—not in flame, but in silence—as though a thousand invisible blades had shredded it into a million particles. Shards of glass twinkled like falling stars before raining down across the empty stretch of asphalt.

Where the sedan once stood was nothing but a blackened scorch, a slick of crimson, and silence. Sylus’s Evol faded as swiftly as it came, leaving only the faintest ripple in the air. He exhaled, calm, controlled, the storm satisfied for now.

No one disrespects her. Not once. Not ever. Not while I’m breathing.

Sylus started the engine, smooth and ordinary, as though he’d done nothing more than finish loading the groceries. You remained oblivious to the chaos that happened down the lane as Sylus completely overshadowed your thoughts.

Even as you pulled away in the car, not once your eyes flickered towards the outside world.

The late afternoon sun stretched golden across the shoreline, the waves rolling lazily onto the sand as gulls wheeled overhead. The beach wasn’t too crowded today — just scattered families, kids with plastic buckets building castles that would be claimed by the tide, and couples strolling hand-in-hand.

You carried a tote bag filled with essentials—sunscreen, towels, a bottle of water tucked against the sandwiches you’d thrown together, all the little things that made an outing practical, survivable. The bag dug into your shoulder with every step, but you kept going, your eyes fixed on the tall figure striding ahead.

Sylus had claimed the picnic basket and the folded umbrella, balanced effortlessly in one hand as though it weighed nothing. Elea was perched high on his shoulders, holding fistfuls of his ashy hair like reins. She squealed and laughed whenever he dipped and tilted, making a game of pretending to lose his balance.

“She’s going to pull your hair out one day.” You muttered, shifting the bag.

Sylus glanced back just long enough for the corner of his mouth to curl, “Worth it.”

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched despite yourself.

Elea kicked her little legs, giggling so hard she nearly slipped, “He cried like a baby! Daddy, you should’ve seen his face! His tooth went flying—”

You stopped dead in your tracks, “Elea Lyn.”

She peered down at you innocently, though her grin gave her away. The he in question was Asher, a boy from her class. Yesterday had been chaos—an unexpected call from the school, the kind that made your stomach drop before you’d even picked up.

The memory still felt raw, replaying in your head like a scene you weren’t sure how to rewrite.

The principal’s office had smelled faintly of coffee and polished wood. You’d rushed in to find your little girl perched on a chair far too big for her, her legs swinging happily like this was recess and not disciplinary hell. Beside her, Asher was bawling his eyes out, a wad of tissue pressed against his bloody mouth. His parents hovered, switching between shushing him and glaring daggers at Elea as though she were a tiny criminal.

“What happened here?” You had demanded, trying to keep your voice steady.

Principal Young adjusted his glasses, clearly exhausted, “It seems… Elea punched Asher.”

“She what?”

“Right here.” The principal gestured at his own jaw, “Knocked out a tooth.”

You had turned to your daughter in disbelief, “Elea—”

“He was being mean!” She had cut you off, her little voice sharp with indignation, “He said I'm–I'm ugly and I am stupid!”

Your heart had clenched even as your palm met your forehead. She was your daughter, through and through. Before you could scold her, Sylus had spoken from beside you, completely unbothered.

“Did you win?”

The principal nearly choked on nothing but air. You’d frozen, horrified, while Elea brightened like the sun.

“Yeah!” She had said, pride practically vibrating off her.

Sylus extended his palm, “High five.”

The loud smack of their hands meeting had echoed like blasphemy in that office. You wanted to sink into the ground right there and then. Instead, you endured an agonizing lecture about appropriate behavior, the suspension notice, the glares of Asher’s parents. The whole time, Sylus sat back, smug, not one ounce of regret touching his features.

And now here you were—at the beach, celebrating your daughter’s “achievment.”

You trudged through the sand, calling up to Elea, “You’re not supposed to hit people. You’re supposed to talk things out.”

“He was talking!” Elea shot back, indignant, “And it was mean. So I made him shut up.”

Before you could respond, Sylus tilted his head toward her, the smirk audible in his voice, “That’s my girl.”

“Sylus!” You glared at him, but he only laughed, adjusting the basket and striding ahead as though he’d just been crowned Father of the Year.

The waves crashed softly nearby, and you sighed, quickening your steps to catch up. The late sunlight caught in his hair, in Elea’s bright smile, and for a moment — just a fleeting moment — you almost forgot the chaos within you.

Almost.

The sea breeze tugged at your hair, salty and warm, carrying the sound of waves breaking against the shore. Sylus had made quick work of setting up the umbrella, his movements precise and almost military in their efficiency. He shook out the blanket with a flourish before anchoring it into the sand, the picnic basket waiting in silence.

Elea was a blur of excited energy, hopping from one foot to the other as you caught her by the arm.

“Hold still.” You scolded lightly, squeezing another line of sunscreen onto your palm.

“Mommy!” She whined, wriggling.

“One last time.” You insisted, spreading the cream across her arms and shoulders, “Unless you want to go back to school looking like a fried shrimp.”

She giggled at the image, tolerating your hands for another thirty seconds before pulling free, “Okay! Done! I’m gonna go find seashells!”

And then she was gone, darting toward the tide with her curls bouncing, leaving you with a faint smile. When you turned back, you found Sylus watching you.

His elbows rested on his knees, one hand loosely clasping the other, his crimson eyes tracing every line of you with that unreadable intensity that always made your pulse falter. He tilted his head slightly, and then his lips curved. The sorry excuse of a shirt was already abandoned somewhere.

“My turn.” He said, voice smooth as honey but carrying that smug undertone you hated recognizing.

You frowned, “Your turn for what?”

He leaned back, gesturing lazily toward himself, and then — God help you — he gave you the look. The one that was equal parts puppy-eyed plea and dangerous tease.

“I’ve been a very responsible father today. I set up our little paradise here, carried the heavy things, you didn't even have to ask twice. I think I deserve some care.” His hand swept over his broad shoulders. “Sunscreen. Before I burn.”

You stared at him, “You’re so annoying.”

“Maybe.” He grinned, leaning back on his hands, his chest stretched out, “But I’m also persuasive.”

Your inner voice screamed no. Absolutely not. Don’t fall into his rhythm. Don’t let him turn this into one of those moments where you forget what he did, forget the betrayal, forget that he—

You shook the thought, irritated.

“Please?” He arched one brow at you and murmured, like he knew exactly how the word twisted in your chest, you caved. Against every ounce of logic in your body, you picked up the sunscreen.

“Fine.” You snapped, “But don’t you dare make this weird.”

His grin said he already had. You uncapped the bottle, squeezed some lotion onto your palms, and then pressed them flat against his shoulders and glided down his bare back. His skin was warm from the sun, the muscles shifting beneath your touch, steady as stone.

“You don’t have to enjoy yourself that much.” You muttered.

“I’m not doing anything.” His voice was maddeningly calm, though his eyes glittered when he looked at you from the corner of his lashes, “Except existing.”

“Exactly.” You rubbed harder, maybe more forcefully than necessary, dragging your palms down his arms, across the tense line of his neck, “Stop existing so smugly.”

He chuckled, low and husky, and the sound curled through your stomach like smoke. When you finished, you capped the bottle with finality, about to pull back, but Sylus spoke again — this time quieter.

“You shouldn’t scold her for what happened at school.”

Your brows knit, “She punched a boy, Sylus. She can’t just—”

“She stood up for herself.” He cut in smoothly, eyes fixed on yours now, all playfulness momentarily gone, “That boy taunted her. Belittled her. If he had been older… He wouldn’t have walked away with just a missing tooth.”

You swallowed, unsettled by the sheer promise in his voice, “You can’t keep teaching her violence is the answer.”

“She’s my daughter.” He said simply, “She knows when violence is good and when it's bad.”

Your heart thudded painfully because part of you agreed, part of you was even grateful — but another part wanted to scream at him for how easy he made blood and threats sound. You realized too late that while you were lost in thought, Sylus had leaned closer.

Close enough that his breath skimmed your cheek, close enough that the world tilted with the pull of his presence. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, the sea breeze teasing strands of his silver hair across his forehead, and for a dizzying second, you forgot how to breathe.

It was too much — the weight of memory pressing down. Nights when his lips had mapped every inch of your skin, when his voice had cracked whispering your name, when you had believed, with your entire being, that this man was your forever.

And lately, the dreams hadn’t been helping at all.

They came in flashes at night, leaving you gasping awake in tangled sheets. Sometimes they were tender, cruelly tender — Sylus brushing your hair back and kissing your temple, whispering words that melted you. Other times, they burned — his lips rough against yours, his body caging yours to the bed, his voice low and sinful as he called you his. And then there were the worst dreams, the dangerous ones, where you weren’t just his lover but his obsession, where he made you feel things that left you trembling long after dawn.

Your lips parted, the faintest tremor of a question escaping before you could stop it. Half tempted to give in your desire and take him right then and there. To show everyone he was yours. Your hand twitched with the urge to cup his cheek. To let him kiss you. To let yourself fall.

Maybe it had all been a misunderstanding. Maybe he hadn’t betrayed you. Maybe—

But then reality slammed back in and you shoved him back. Hard enough that his expression shifted from hungry to amused in half a second flat.

“No.” Your voice was sharp, your chest rising and falling too quickly, “Not happening.”

He tilted his head, smirk curving like sin across his mouth, “You want it to.”

“No.” You turned away from him, setting the sunscreen aside with unnecessary force, “Now shut up and return the favor.”

His brows rose. You threw yourself down onto your stomach on the blanket, tugging the strap of your sundress aside to expose your bare back.

“I’m not asking twice, Sylus.”

For a beat, silence. Then a shadow fell over you, his body moving closer, and his voice dipped low — molten, dangerous.

“Sweetheart.” He murmured, the word brushing your ear like a secret, “I’ve been waiting years to get my hands on you again.”

The first touch of his palms on your back stole your breath. He spread the lotion slowly, deliberately, his thumbs pressing small circles into your shoulder blades, down the ridge of your spine. His touch was expert, maddening—equal parts caress and tease, lingering just long enough to make your skin burn hotter than the sun.

You bit your lip, pressing your face into the crook of your arms.

“This is sunscreen, Sylus.” You managed, your voice muffled but tense, “Not… whatever you think you’re doing.”

“Oh, I’m not thinking of anything.” He said, his tone dripping with amusement, “Nothing at all.”

His hands slid lower, fingertips brushing the edge of your hip before he pulled back, maddeningly slow. The heat of his hand still lingered on your hips when something whistled through the air. You barely had time to flinch before a sharp smack resounded and a volleyball slammed into Sylus’s palm, inches from your head. He caught it with inhuman ease, fingers clamping around it like a predator closing on prey.

Your heart jolted, adrenaline spiking as you twisted up on your elbows.

“What the—”

Sylus’s crimson eyes had already narrowed, darkening into that stormy shade you remembered all too well — the one that always meant someone was about to regret their choices. He didn’t move for a beat. Just stared down at the ball, knuckles tightening against its surface as though he could crush it into dust. Then his head lifted, slow and deliberate.

A group of young men—university boys, probably no older than twenty—were swaggering toward you across the sand, all board shorts and cocky grins.

One of them, tall and broad, raised his hand in mock apology, “Oops. Sorry, old man. Didn’t see you there.”

The others snickered.

You stiffened, every muscle in your back tense. You hopped he’d let it slide. But Sylus Qin never let anything slide. Not when it brushed too close to you.

His voice was low, deceptively calm as he held the ball up in one hand, “You nearly took my woman’s head off.”

The boys laughed harder.

“Your woman?” One jeered, “Grandpa’s still living in his Wattpad fantasies.”

“Wrinkly granny and wrinkly grandpa, that’s cute.” Another chimed in, pointing at you with a smirk.

Your blood ran cold, cheeks burning hot at the insult — but Sylus didn’t flinch. He only smiled. And that smile… gods, you knew that smile. It was sharp enough to gut a man.

You surged up onto your knees, tugging at his arm, “Don’t. They’re just kids.”

“Kids.” Sylus repeated softly, his gaze never leaving them, “Kids who just insulted you.”

“They’re young and stupid.” You hissed.

But it was too late. He tossed the ball up, catching it once with an easy snap of his wrist.

“Apparently blind too.” He said, voice carrying over the tension, “Why don't you let this old man join you. One match. Me versus all of you.”

The boys’ laughter wavered into surprise, then derision, “You serious?”

Sylus tipped his chin toward them, every inch the king daring peasants to step onto his throne, “Unless you’re scared.”

“Oh, we’re so scared.” The tall one rolled his eyes, “Fine, old man. You’re on.”

You groaned under your breath, pressing your palm to your temple, “Sylus…”

He turned just enough to glance at you, eyes glinting, “Keep an eye on Elea. I won’t be long.”

“Don’t go too hard on them.” You warned sharply.

That earned you another smirk—this one even more dangerous, “No promises.”

And then he was gone, striding down the sand with the ball tucked under his arm, every movement radiating lethal grace. You exhaled hard, flopping back onto the blanket.

Elea, who had returned with her arms full of seashells, plopped beside you, “Where is Daddy?”

“Somewhere making bad decisions.” You muttered, reaching for one of her shells. It was a soft pink spiral, glistening with salt water. You forced a smile and got up from the ground , “Come on, princess. Let’s build a sandcastle.”

She beamed, instantly distracted, and together you smoothed walls, built turrets, and lined the path with her seashells while your eyes kept darting back to the game unfolding a few meters away.

The boys had expected to play against a man out of his depth. They had expected easy laughs and maybe a funny story for later. They had not expected Sylus.

He stood on the makeshift court — just a strip of sand between two sticks they planted as markers — rolling the ball between his hands. When the tallest boy served, Sylus didn’t even blink. He launched upward, his body arching like a striking panther, and spiked the ball back with such force it slammed into one boy’s chest and knocked him flat onto his back.

A chorus of curses and shouts rose up.

You winced, “Oh my god.”

You didn't need to look to know the boys were getting destroyed.

Elea giggled, decorating the castle with shells, “Look mommy, it looks like Patrick star.”

“Yeah, sweetie.”

Sylus was already in motion. The boys scrambled, but it was no use — he was faster, stronger, sharper. Every time the ball came his way, he sent it back like a missile. One boy took it to the stomach and doubled over. Another got smacked across the shoulder with a resounding crack. A third caught it full in the thigh and yelped like a kicked puppy.

And the whole time, Sylus didn’t so much as break a sweat. His smirk deepened with every hit, his eyes flashing that dangerous glint that had haunted his enemies.

By the time the ball ricocheted off the sand for the tenth time, sending the last boy sprawling, the match was over. Sylus stood alone in the center, chest rising steady, as his opponents groaned and limped back toward their towels in utter defeat.

He spun the ball once in his palm, then casually tossed it aside, as though the entire destruction of five overconfident young men had been nothing more than light exercise.

The sandcastle stood proudly at Elea’s side, seashell turrets glinting in the fading sun. She was humming to herself, digging a moat with a plastic spade, her curls bouncing as she worked. You had just brushed the last grain of sand from your hands when a shadow fell across you.

“Excuse me.”

You glanced up, startled. A man stood there — mid-thirties, tanned, with the kind of gym body that screamed hours spent flexing in front of mirrors. His smile was easy, practiced.

“Sorry to bother you, but I couldn’t help noticing you earlier. Thought I’d say hi.”

You blinked, “Oh. Um… hi.”

He stuck his hands into his pockets, cocky in the way only a man who thought he was charming could be, “You come here often? The beach, I mean.”

Before you could muster a polite brush-off, a familiar weight settled behind you. Sylus. You didn’t even hear him approach, but suddenly he was there. His arm draped across the front of your shoulders, chest flushed against your back, fingers brushing possessively at your skin as he leaned in just enough to murmur, “Sweetheart, who’s your new friend?”

The man faltered. His eyes darted from you to Sylus — tall, broad-shouldered, his crimson gaze gleaming like warning flares.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were—”

“She’s taken.” Sylus cut in smoothly. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

The man gave a nervous chuckle, “Right, my mistake. Just thought she looked—”

“Taken.” Sylus’s hand tightened on your shoulder, his tone dropping low, dangerous, “She looked beautifully taken.”

Your heart skipped, heat crawling up your neck.

“Sylus.” You muttered under your breath, grabbing his wrist in warning.

He didn’t look at you. His gaze was fixed on the intruder, who now raised his hands in surrender, “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“Disrespect?” Sylus echoed softly, like the word was a blade he could twist. His jaw ticked, “You walked up to my woman, while I was standing ten feet away, and thought you’d try your luck. That’s not disrespect. That’s suicide.”

The air around him shifted — the kind of suffocating tension you remembered all too well from nights in the old world, when Sylus’s temper turned rooms into cages.

“Daddy?” Elea piped up suddenly, glancing up from her sandcastle. Her little brow furrowed, “What’s going on?”

That tiny voice snapped something in you. You shot the stranger a look, sharp and dismissive, “You should go.”

He didn’t need telling twice. Muttering another apology, he retreated across the sand, his shoulders stiff. Sylus tracked him with his eyes until he was a safe distance away. Only then did he release a slow, deliberate breath, as though he’d barely managed to keep himself from exploding.

You turned on him the second the man disappeared, “What was that?”

His gaze snapped to you, still burning, “What was that? Did you see how he was looking at you?”

“He was just trying to make conversation.”

“Conversation.” Sylus spat, scoffing, “That wasn’t conversation. That was a dog sniffing around what doesn’t belong to him.”

You stiffened, “I don’t belong to you.”

For a moment, silence stretched — so taut you could almost hear it snap. Then Sylus leaned in closer, his lips at your ear, his words a velvet growl. Sylus was glaring at you, his jaw tight, the heat in his crimson eyes unrelenting. You hated the way it made your pulse stumble, like it always had.

“Lea, baby.” He said finally, his gaze never leaving yours, “Let’s play in the water.”

Elea’s head shot up, her whole face lighting up with excitement. She scrambled to her feet, sand clinging to her legs, “Really?!”

Sylus tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, “Let’s do a race. First one in the water gets a bunny plushie.”

“A bunny plushie?!” Elea squealed, “You’re on, Daddy!”

And before you could even process the shift in mood, she took off across the sand, legs pumping, laughter spilling behind her. Naturally, you expected Sylus to follow. To run after her with that long stride of his and let her win by a margin. Instead, he turned to you.

You had just enough time to blink before his arms hooked under you—one at your back, one beneath your knees—and he lifted you effortlessly off the blanket.

“Wait—wait! Sylus!” Your voice pitched high, your arms flying around his neck on instinct, “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Revenge.” He said smoothly, as though it were the most logical thing in the world.

Before you could fight him off, he was running — actually running — across the sand with you cradled against his chest like some ridiculous romance novel cover come to life.

Your stomach swooped, heart leaping into your throat as the world blurred around you, “Put me down! Sylus, I swear to god—”

And then he didn’t slow, didn’t even hesitate, before plunging straight into the surf. The sea exploded around you both, cool saltwater rushing up over your shoulders as Sylus laughed low in your ear, the sound vibrating through your chest.

You surfaced first, gasping, shoving wet hair out of your face.

“You absolute asshole!” You spluttered, glaring at him as water dripped down your cheeks.

He surfaced a beat later, crimson eyes gleaming like rubies in the sunlight, dark hair plastered to his forehead, “Language, sweetheart. We’ve got impressionable ears nearby.”

“Don’t you dare twist this—”

You lunged, splashing him with both hands, sending a spray of seawater right into his smug face.

He blinked, droplets clinging to his lashes, and then smiled. That slow, wicked smile that always meant trouble, “Oh, you’re starting something now?”

“Damn right I am.” You sent another wave of water his way, half laughing, half fuming.

Sylus retaliated immediately, one large hand cutting through the water like a blade, sending a massive arc crashing against you. You shrieked, stumbling back, only for him to follow and trap you in the shallows.

Elea was shrieking with laughter a few feet away, splashing in circles, “Get her, Daddy! Don’t let her win!”

“Oh, don’t worry, baby.” Sylus said, his voice deceptively sweet as he stalked you through the surf, “Daddy's in the mood today.”

You swiped another splash at him, but he caught your wrist easily, pulling you close until you crashed against his chest. Water lapped around you both, the world narrowing to his wet skin pressed to yours, his breath ghosting against your ear.

“Got you.” He murmured.

Your heart thudded traitorously. You pushed against him, glaring, “This isn’t winning. This is cheating.”

“Cheating?” His mouth curved, far too close, “Sweetheart, you’ve known me long enough to know — I don’t play fair.”

You froze, breath catching, every nerve ending betraying you under the weight of his voice, his body, his crimson eyes burning straight into you. For one dizzy second, you almost forgot where you were, forgot the salt water, the beach, the years between you—

Until Elea splashed both of you square in the face.

“Ha! Got you both!” She crowed, triumphant.

You sputtered, shoving wet hair out of your face again while Sylus only laughed — deep, low, the kind of laugh that curled hot in your stomach.

“You’re raising a monster.” You muttered, pointing at Elea.

“Our monster.” Sylus corrected, eyes gleaming with something softer now, something that made your chest ache even more than your laughter.

You turned away quickly, splashing him again just to hide the tremor in your throat, “Still an asshole.”

“Mm.” His smile curled, “But you love this asshole.”

By the time the sun began to dip low, the sky had softened into molten hues of gold and rose. Elea was still splashing in the shallows, her laughter carrying over the surf, while you sat on the blanket wringing saltwater from your hair. Sylus lounged beside you, half-damp, his arm draped over the back of the blanket like he owned the whole damn beach.

Elea eventually came running back, dripping wet and clutching a crooked little seashell she declared was "treasure." She pressed it into your palm with proud eyes, and you swore your heart almost broke at how bright she looked.

Sylus tugged her onto his lap, wrapping her in a towel big enough to swallow her whole.

"My little fighter." He murmured, kissing the top of her head.

"You mean troublemaker." You corrected, smiling as you reached out to tuck damp strands of hair behind Elea’s ear.

"Troublemaker who is a fighter." Sylus shot back, giving you a pointed look—the same smug look he’d worn all day since Elea confessed to knocking that boy’s tooth out.

"God help me." You muttered, though warmth curled in your chest watching father and daughter together.

The three of you sat there for a while, watching the sun melt into the horizon. Elea nestled sleepily against Sylus’s chest, her tiny breaths evening out. You reached for her, but he shook his head, holding her tighter, his gaze locked on the waves like he was memorizing the moment.

When it grew darker and the beach thinned out, Sylus finally stood, Elea in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. He shifted her easily, as though carrying her was the most natural thing in the world, then extended his free hand toward you.

"Come on, sweetheart," He murmured, voice softer than it had been all day, "Let’s go home."

Your fingers slid into his without meaning to. His hand was warm, steady, grounding. And as the three of you walked back across the sand — your daughter safe in his arms, his grip firm on yours — you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, despite the chaos and sharp edges, this messy little family was the closest thing to peace you’d ever have.

Your life was going good. Too good.

The morning was calm, the kind that smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass and damp earth. The air was cool against your skin as you walked barefoot down the little stone path toward the mailbox. Elea was still inside, hunched over her sketchbook, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she drew her latest masterpiece—something that looked like Sylus with dragon wings and a sword, which you tried not to read too much into.

The quiet was nice. Rare. A week had passed since the beach day, and though you hadn’t admitted it aloud, the memory of Sylus carrying you into the ocean still burned on the inside of your skull. He’d smirked about it for days. Every time he glanced at you, you could swear he saw you not as you were now, but as the mess of tangled hair, dripping sundress, and sputtered curses you’d been when he’d dunked you into the sea.

You shook the thought off and popped open the mailbox, thumbing through a stack of envelopes. Bills. Advertisements.

That was when you heard it. The crunch of tires on gravel.

A sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of Claire’s house. Your brow furrowed. Claire never had visitors in flashy cars. Mostly it was her son in his old pickup, or the neighbor who brought groceries. You turned your head slightly, curiosity tugging at you.

And then you froze.

Because stepping out of that shiny car was a face you knew all too well, one that immediately twisted your stomach into a knot.

Nara.

The moment your eyes landed on her, you felt your whole body go tight. Her glossy brown hair tumbled perfectly down her shoulders, her designer sunglasses perched at just the right angle, her lips already curving into that saccharine smile you hated so much. She spotted you almost instantly, and you could see the flicker of delight in her eyes—like she’d been handed the chance to ruin your morning on a silver platter.

You almost groaned aloud. Of course. Because the universe clearly had a sense of humor, and you were the punchline.

Nara slid her sunglasses down and fixed her eyes on you.

“Well, well.” She said, her tone honey-sweet but dripping with condescension, “If it isn’t Y/n. Up early to fetch the mail? How… domestic of you.”

Your jaw tightened, “Just starting the day.”

“Mm.” She looked you over slowly, then smiled in that way that never reached her eyes, “Grandmother invited me to stay for a week or two. Isn’t that lovely? It’ll be so nice to… catch up.”

Catch up. The words curled like a threat under her teeth.

You opened your mouth, ready to toss something back — when the creak of your front door caught your ear.

Sylus stepped out, a black trash bag slung casually over his shoulder. His dark–silver hair caught the sunlight, messy from the morning, his T-shirt stretched across his frame like sin incarnate. You didn’t have to look at Nara to know her eyes were glued to him. You felt it.

Your chest went tight.

Her smirk faltered into something else — wide-eyed, breathless admiration that made your stomach twist in a very different way. You could practically see her falling, her gaze trailing over Sylus like she’d been struck dumb.

“My husband.” The words came out sharp, pointed, as though you were hurling them like knives. You crossed your arms, meeting Nara’s widening eyes with a glare that dared her to try, “That's my husband.”

“Oh.” She whispered, just loud enough.

You felt heat rush up your neck. No. Absolutely not.

But Sylus? He didn’t spare her a single glance. Not one flicker of acknowledgment. He walked down the path, his steps unhurried, tossed the trash into the bin, then brushed his hands off with lazy ease.

His gaze lifted. Landed squarely on you. And softened.

“Sweetheart.” He called, voice carrying easily across the morning air, low and sure, “Come inside. Breakfast’s ready. Don’t let it get cold.”

Your breath caught. Not a single word to Nara. Not a glance. Nothing. And yet, your pulse skipped at how casually, how naturally he’d claimed you with just that.

You swallowed, nodding faintly, and turned back toward the house. But not before you caught Nara’s face — the way her jaw slackened, then tightened, eyes narrowing like a cat whose prey had slipped away.

Nara just curled up her lips that tensed smile, “Isn’t that nice? He takes such good care of you. Lovely.”

You held her gaze for just a second longer, your own smile edged with steel, before you turned and headed back toward Sylus. An uncomfortable feeling twisting in your stomach.

The afternoon stretched heavy with a beautiful kind of peace. The kind that only came when the house was quiet, when the chaos of the outside world faded into a hush that seemed to belong to another universe. Sylus knew this peace was fragile, fleeting. He felt it in the way you shifted against him, your cheek nestled on his chest — unknowingly seeking comfort in his warmth —your breath warm and steady as it rose and fell in sync with his own. Elea, little wild thing that she was, had wriggled herself between the two of you at some point, now deeply asleep, one of her tiny fists curled stubbornly into the fabric of his shirt.

He glanced down at you both, his arms already tightened around you without realizing it. The sight nearly undid him. You, with your lashes casting shadows against your cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep. And Elea — his daughter, his blood — utterly at peace, sandwiched between her parents as if the world beyond these walls couldn’t touch her.

For Sylus, who had lived a life of blood, power, and betrayal, this was almost unbearable. The vulnerability of it. The trust you both gave him, even if you didn’t mean to. It carved through him like a knife. He buried his face briefly into your hair, breathing you in, and thought — this is mine. Mine, no matter what lies or hate you throw at me. No matter what distance you think you can put between us. You will always be mine.

The rhythm of your heartbeat lulled him deeper, the soft weight of Elea’s head against him anchoring him in a way nothing else could. His crimson eyes fluttered shut. For once, he allowed himself to drift. Not entirely asleep — he never truly slept deeply, not after a life of watching his back — but enough to feel human. Enough to pretend that the world hadn’t torn him apart and left scars he could never erase.

And then, of course, the world intruded.

The sharp trill of the doorbell sliced through the quiet. Sylus’s eyes snapped open at once, instincts surging to the surface, his body going taut beneath you. For a fraction of a second, rage sparked — a primitive urge to destroy whoever dared interrupt this rare sanctuary. His gaze cut to you immediately, then to Elea, both blissfully undisturbed by the sound. That was enough to steady him, enough to remind him that his first duty was not to break things apart, but to protect what lay in his arms.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted. Elea murmured in her sleep when he began to disentangle himself, her little fist tightening briefly on his shirt. His hand covered hers gently, easing her grip.

“Shh.” He murmured under his breath, his voice the kind of softness no one else in the world would ever hear from him. Only her. Only you.

You stirred faintly when his warmth left your side, your brow creasing as if the loss reached you even in dreams. That almost made him stay. Almost. But the doorbell rang again, sharper this time, and his jaw flexed. Whoever was at that door clearly had no idea how close they were to being ground into ash.

He pulled the nearby duvet over both of you, tucking it with deliberate care, making sure the edges shielded you from any chill. He lingered for one last heartbeat, eyes sweeping over you. The softness of your hair against the pillow. The curve of Elea’s cheek as she pressed closer into you. His chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where once there had only been iron.

“Stay asleep.” He whispered under his breath, as if commanding the universe itself not to rob you of this rare peace.

Then he turned, and the softness fell away.

By the time he crossed the living room, the warmth of the nap had bled out of him, replaced by the cool, dangerous patience that had carried him through a life of violence. His shoulders rolled back, his steps silent but purposeful. The second ring of the bell came just as his hand reached the knob.

He opened it, his crimson gaze immediately narrowing at the figure on the porch.

A young woman stood there, pretty in the way that was too aware of itself. Her hair fell in practiced waves, her blouse cut just low enough to suggest rather than conceal. Her painted smile was rehearsed, the kind that had been used a thousand times to get her way.

He recognized her from earlier — the girl you’d spoken to that morning. The one whose voice had grated on your patience, even from a distance.

She tilted her head, her expression brightening as if she’d just stumbled across a blessing rather than barged into his sanctuary, “Oh—hi. You must be Sylus, right? Y/n’s husband? I'm Nara, Claire's granddaughter.”

His jaw tightened at the sound of her voice, too sweet, too rehearsed.

“What do you want?” He asked flatly, not bothering to confirm or deny.

If his tone unsettled her, she didn’t show it. She stepped closer, clasping her hands in mock helplessness.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but my car broke down just down the street. I was hoping… maybe you could take a look? I really need to get it running.”

“Call a mechanic.” Sylus said immediately. He started to shut the door.

“Wait—please.” Her hand shot out to grip the frame, nails tapping against the wood. Her lashes fluttered, eyes wide, “It’s urgent. I need to take Claire to her hospital appointment. You know, her monthly check-up? It would take forever for a mechanic to get here. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

The name stopped him. Claire.

For a moment, Sylus stilled, crimson eyes narrowing further. He didn’t give a damn about this girl. But Claire… Claire was different. She mattered to you. She was one of the very few people in this neighborhood you trusted. The thought of you waking from your nap, finding out that Claire had missed something important because of his refusal — it soured in his gut.

He exhaled slowly, fighting back the irritation that threatened to snap. Every instinct screamed that this was a waste of his time. Worse, that this woman wasn’t helpless at all — she reeked of manipulation, the kind of coy charm he despised on anyone that wasn't you. But still. For you, for the peace you treasured with Claire, he would bite back his temper.

“Fine.” He said at last, his voice clipped like steel, “Show me.”

Relief blossomed on her face instantly. Too quickly. Too practiced, “Oh, thank you! You’re a lifesaver.”

Sylus stepped out, shutting the door behind him with a quiet thud, as if sealing the barrier between the peace inside and the nuisance outside. He didn’t miss the way her eyes swept over him, slow and appraising, like he was something to be bought, handled, played with.

If she knew the storm she was walking into, she’d have run the other way.

The sunlight hit him full in the face as he walked down the porch steps. The day was too bright for his liking, the air heavy with the buzzing drone of cicadas hidden in the trees. Her car was parked crookedly by the side of the street, hood propped open as though she’d been waiting for him.

He glanced inside the hood once, already diagnosing the issue. It wasn’t complicated. A loose connection, a job for a wrench and five minutes. Easy enough to fix.

Except she wasn’t making it easy. She was making it annoying.

The moment he bent forward, she drifted closer, her perfume thick and cloying in the air. It wasn’t the subtle, clean scent that clung to your skin when you leaned into him — it was artificial, overwhelming, designed to smother.

“So.” She said lightly, leaning on the edge of the car beside him, her blouse shifting in a way that was clearly intentional, “You’re Sylus. Claire mentioned you once or twice.”

Sylus doubted that. He had barely two decent encounters with Claire.

He didn’t look up, “Mm.”

“I can see why.” She went on, her voice dropping into a tone she must have thought was alluring, “You’re… impressive.”

His hands tightened around the wrench, the metal groaning faintly under the pressure of his grip. He said nothing. Silence was better — it kept him from saying what he wanted to, from letting his temper loose.

Undeterred, she leaned a little closer, her shoulder brushing his arm in a way that made his muscles tense, “It’s kind of surprising, though. A man like you… and her.”

That made him look up, slowly. His golden eyes fixed on her, colder than winter steel.

“Her?” He repeated, his tone carrying quiet warning.

Nara blinked, feigning innocence even as her mouth curved.

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just—Y/N seems so… gentle. Fragile. Sweet, in her way. But not exactly—” She gestured vaguely at him, eyes raking down his frame, “—on your level.”

Sylus forced himself to straighten, to step back just enough that she wasn’t touching him anymore. His restraint was taut as a bowstring. She doesn’t know anything about her, he told himself. She doesn’t know her fire, her strength, the way she keeps me alive without even realizing it. She knows nothing.

But the fact that Nara had dared — had dared — to even form the thought left his vision sparking with fury.

“She...” He said slowly, his voice low enough that it seemed to vibrate in the air, “Is the only reason I agreed to help you at all.”

Nara faltered, her smile flickering. He turned back to the engine, deliberately ignoring her, his movements clipped, efficient. He needed to finish this. Needed to get back to you before the thin thread of his patience snapped. But she wasn’t done.

“You must get tired, though.” She murmured, leaning over again, letting her blouse dip low, “Carrying all that weight. Being with someone like her. Maybe you deserve someone who can match you. Someone who understands.”

His hand stilled on the wrench. For a moment, there was only silence, the summer air heavy, the cicadas buzzing like static in the distance. Then, slowly, he set the wrench down on the edge of the hood. When he turned his head, the look he gave her could have cut through steel.

“You don’t get to speak about her.”

The words were quiet, but they thrummed with restrained violence, the kind that made the ground feel unsteady, the kind that promised if she pushed even once more, he would not stop himself.

Nara froze, her painted smile faltering for the first time.

Sylus turned back to the engine, finishing the repair with sharp, decisive motions. His pulse thundered in his ears, not from her proximity, not from her attempts, but from the sheer effort it took not to end it all right there, to silence her with one brutal motion and wash his hands of it.

The only thing stopping him was the image of you — still sleeping peacefully, your head against his chest, Elea safe in your arms. That image was a tether, holding him back from violence, anchoring him when rage clawed at his insides.

He needed to get back to you. That was all that mattered.

The wrench clicked one last time. Sylus straightened, shoulders rolling back, jaw tight. The car was fixed — easily, efficiently — and he should have walked away then. Back to you. Back to Elea. But Nara lingered, lips painted into that sly little smile, eyes dragging over him with shameless calculation.

“Already done?” She purred, stepping close again, “You really are good with your hands.”

He ignored her, slammed the hood shut. The metallic echo cut the air between them like a warning shot, “Try it now.”

Instead of obeying, she leaned lazily against the car, her eyes glittering with something darker than amusement.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot about her.” She said, casual but sharp-edged, “Your wife.”

Sylus’s entire body stilled.

“She’s always been…” Nara tilted her head, lips curling, “Different, hasn’t she? I remember the first time I saw her — with a newborn baby in her arms and no husband in sight. Everyone wondered what sort of woman she really was. What sort of choices she must’ve made. You can’t blame people for whispering.”

The words hit the air like poison. For a heartbeat, Sylus didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. His golden eyes narrowed, a predator’s gaze locking onto prey that didn’t realize the danger until it was too late.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, calm — deadly.

“Be careful.”

Nara’s brows rose, but her smirk remained.

“Careful of what? The truth? She appeared out of nowhere with a child and no man. What does that say about her, Sylus?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice into a mockery of intimacy, “You really don’t wonder what kind of woman you’ve tied yourself to?”

Sylus’s jaw ticked, the muscle flexing hard enough to ache. A sound left his throat — something between a laugh and a growl, sharp and humorless.

“It says.” He gritted through his teeth, “That she is mine. My wife. The mother of my child. And the only woman alive I would spill the world’s blood to protect.”

He drew back just enough to look into her eyes, his own burning with a fury so controlled it was more terrifying than rage.

“You want to talk about character?” His voice cut like steel, “You walk onto my doorstep, sneering at the woman who’s worth more than your entire existence, and think you’re clever. That’s not character. That’s desperation.”

Nara’s lips parted, her composure faltering for the first time.

“She raised Elea without me for years.” Sylus continued, tone sharpening, each word striking like a hammer, “She didn’t need a husband to prove her worth. She didn’t need anyone to tell her who she was. She survived when most wouldn’t. That’s strength. That’s character.”

His eyes darkened, voice dropping to a growl, “And if you ever — ever — insinuate otherwise, you’ll learn just how patient I’m not.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the cicadas seemed to hush.

Nara faltered, her smirk twitching, her hand tightening on the edge of the car door. She tried to recover, but her laugh came out thin.

“You’re very… protective.”

“Obsessively so.” Sylus said flatly, without shame, without hesitation.

And for once, she didn’t have a retort.

He stepped back, pointing at the driver’s seat with a sharp jerk of his chin, “Get in the car. Drive Claire where she needs to go. And pray I don’t hear you speak her name again.”

Nara swallowed hard, her painted bravado cracking under the weight of his glare. Finally, she slid into the seat, started the engine, and forced one last shaky smile.

“Maybe I’ll see you around, Sylus.”

He didn’t answer. His hands trembled — not from doubt, not from weakness, but from the storm of violence he’d barely restrained. Because no one — no one — spoke about you like that. Not while Sylus Qin still drew breath.

The gravel crunched under his boots as Sylus walked back toward the house. Each step felt heavier than the last, the echo of Nara’s words still clawing at his skull like rusted nails.

Characterless.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. How easy it would have been — so easy — to wrap his hand around her throat and silence her venom forever. His Evol had thrummed in his blood, whispering, urging: End her. She disrespected what’s yours. She dirtied her name. End her.

But he hadn’t. Not because she didn’t deserve it, but because you were inside. Because the last thing he wanted was for you to wake to the sound of him painting the driveway red.

He reached the porch, exhaling through his teeth, trying to force the violence down. He knew it wouldn’t leave him. Not fully. Fury never left Sylus — it only hid in his marrow, waiting for the next excuse to erupt.

The door creaked open under his hand. The house was quiet again, dim with afternoon light spilling in soft streaks through the curtains.

And there you were.

Right where he left you — on the couch, curled into the crook of the blanket he’d pulled over you. Your head rested on the rise of the cushion, hair spilling in loose strands across your face. Elea lay tucked against you, tiny fists clutched at the hem of your dress, her lips parted in the easy, untroubled sleep of a child.

For a moment, Sylus simply stood there, watching.

The storm inside him cracked, softened, unraveled.

His jaw unclenched, though the echo of his rage lingered in the pulse beating hot in his temples. His golden eyes traced every detail of you — your lashes brushing your cheek, the faint crease in your brow even in sleep, like you were carrying weight even in your dreams.

He hated that anyone — anyone — would dare question you. Question the years you carried alone. The years he wasn’t there.

His chest tightened. Guilt slid through the fury, sharper than any blade. He should have been there. He should have been with you when Elea first opened her eyes to the world. He should have been the one you leaned on, the one you called husband in truth, not in bitter pretense.

Instead, you’d faced it all. Alone. And people like Nara had twisted that into something ugly, something shameful, when in reality it only proved what Sylus had always known —

That you were stronger than anyone else alive. Stronger than him, even.

He moved closer, boots silent against the wooden floor. Slowly, carefully, he crouched beside the couch. His hand hovered for a second, then brushed lightly against a strand of hair that had fallen across your cheek. He pushed it back, the gentlest touch his scarred hands were capable of.

You stirred faintly, lips parting with a whisper that never quite formed into words. His heart clenched at the sound.

She doesn’t know, he thought, gaze flicking down to Elea curled up against you. She doesn’t know what I nearly did out there. What I’ll always want to do when someone so much as looks at her wrong.

He lowered himself further, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on you like you were the only anchor keeping him from drowning in his fury.

“Mine.” He whispered, so soft it barely stirred the air. Not a declaration. Not even a vow. Just a truth, absolute and unshakable.

His gaze shifted to Elea, small chest rising and falling, her lashes dark against her cheeks. He remembered her voice from earlier, sharp and pure, asking what was going on when he’d been ready to rip that stranger at the beach apart. She was too perceptive, too much like him already.

He would kill for her, too. Without hesitation. Without guilt. But he didn’t want her to grow up thinking violence was the only answer. That was his curse, not hers. He sighed, long and quiet, dragging a hand down his face.

What would you say if you knew? If you’d seen the way his Evol burned hot in his veins outside, itching to reduce Nara to nothing but dust? Would you still hate him for the sins of the past, or would this only prove every fear you carried about him?

He didn’t know. And he wasn’t ready to find out. Or maybe he was?

So instead, Sylus sat there in silence. Watching. Guarding. His golden eyes softened every time they traced over you, hardened every time he remembered Nara’s voice, then softened again as if you were the only thing that could keep him tethered to something human.

The storm still roared in him, yes. But with you and Elea here, breathing steady, untouched, safe — he could bury it for now. Because you were worth more than the blood he longed to spill.

The knock came just as you had settled Elea in her highchair, a small wooden spoon clutched tightly in her tiny fist. You froze for a heartbeat, halfway through wiping your hands on the kitchen towel. It was late — later than anyone decent would come uninvited. The second knock followed, sharper, more insistent, and the sound made your pulse leap with unease.

Sylus glanced up from where he was pouring himself a glass of water, dark brows knitting, “Expecting someone?”

You shook your head, throat tight, “No.”

The towel fell carelessly to the counter as you moved to the door. For some reason, your chest felt heavy, an inexplicable dread thrumming in your veins. You opened it — and your heart dropped.

Nara stood there, haloed in the warm glow of the porch lantern. She was dressed deliberately — silky blouse in a soft cream shade that clung just so to her frame, hair neatly curled, makeup carefully understated, as though she wanted to look effortless while trying far too hard. In her hands rested a steaming casserole dish wrapped in a floral cloth.

Her lips curved into a smile, syrupy sweet, “Good evening. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Already your stomach knotted.

“Nara.” The name tasted bitter on your tongue.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting, “I thought I should stop by and… thank Sylus properly for helping me today. It was so kind of him.”

She lifted the dish slightly, like a peace offering — or perhaps a challenge. Helping her? Your mind stuttered, scrambling. Sylus hadn’t mentioned anything. A dozen scenarios bloomed unwanted in your imagination, each more infuriating than the last.

Before you could answer, her voice dipped into mock humility, “I made this for him. I wasn’t sure if you’d mind, but surely you won’t turn away a gesture of gratitude.”

You forced your lips into something resembling civility.

“Of course not.” The words scraped like glass.

Her smile widened, triumphant, as though she had already won some battle you didn’t even know you were fighting.

“May I come in?”

You hesitated — but she breezed past you before the answer could form, perfume trailing behind her, soft and powdery, too sweet.

Sylus looked up as she entered, glass paused midway to his lips. Surprise flickered in his eyes, quickly replaced by the guarded neutrality he wore like armor.

“You.” He said flatly.

“Good evening.” She sang, gliding forward to set the casserole dish on the table, “I just couldn’t let your kindness go unanswered. It’s nothing grand, just a little something from my kitchen.”

You watched her place it down, her manicured fingers lingering longer than necessary on the cloth, as though she were presenting a treasure. Then her eyes lifted, seeking his.

Sylus didn’t return her smile. He only nodded once, curt, “Unnecessary.”

“Oh, but I insist.” Her tone was light, but you could hear the undercurrent—the push, the subtle invasion. And it needled you deeper than you wanted to admit.

Elea let out a happy squeal, banging her spoon on the tray. Nara startled, as if only just noticing her presence. Her gaze slid to the child, lingering a moment too long, and something in her expression flickered — judgment, thinly veiled behind polite curiosity.

“She’s precious.” Nara said smoothly, though her tone lacked warmth. Her eyes darted briefly to you, then back to Sylus. “You’ve taken on quite the responsibility.”

The insinuation slashed through you like a blade. Because you remembered — the day Nara first met you. Elea only a newborn in your arms, no ring on your finger, no husband by your side. You remembered the way her lips had curled, just slightly, in that smug, knowing way. As if she had already written your story: a woman abandoned, unwanted, tainted.

The memory burned now, thickening the lump in your throat.

Sylus’s voice cut through, low and steady, “She is my daughter.”

Nara blinked, momentarily wrong-footed.

“Of course.” She recovered quickly, smile snapping back into place, “I only meant — it’s rare to see such… devotion. Not every man would take so naturally to fatherhood.”

His jaw tightened, “Then not every man deserves to be one.”

Heat bloomed in your chest at his words. A fierce, unshakable defense. He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t needed to. The sharp edge beneath his calm tone was enough.

But Nara didn’t retreat. Instead, she slipped into the chair nearest him, far too close, skirts rustling as she smoothed them over her knees. She leaned forward, elbows brushing the table, eyes fixed on him with practiced attentiveness.

“Still.” She murmured, “It must be exhausting for you. A man like you—so strong, so capable—surely you have enough burdens without—”

“I don’t find them burdens.” Sylus cut her off, eyes narrowing. His gaze flicked briefly toward you, softening in that split second, before turning coldly back to her, “My family is my choice.”

The words hit you like a stone thrown into water — ripples spreading in every direction. Family. Yours.

You clutched the back of a chair before lowering yourself into it, trying to mask the trembling in your hands. Elea babbled, smearing mashed carrots over the tray, blissfully unaware of the currents swirling around her.

Dinner began, though you hardly tasted a thing. Nara kept the conversation alive, animated, her voice lilting as she recounted trivial stories, slipping in compliments toward Sylus with irritating frequency.

“You have such a steady hand, I can imagine you never falter under pressure.”

“You must be admired by so many, Sylus.”

“How do you find time to be both provider and protector? It’s remarkable.”

Each word grated against your nerves, striking sparks in the tinderbox of your chest. You tried to focus on your plate, on Elea’s happy humming as she fed herself, on anything but the way Nara tilted her body toward him, eyes sparkling with feigned awe.

Sylus remained unreadable. He answered when required, voice calm but distant, offering her no fuel to stoke. And yet — her presence alone, the possibility of what she thought she could have, coiled like a snake in your stomach.

You gripped your fork tighter, wishing you could banish her with sheer force of will. Wishing it didn’t matter. Wishing you didn’t care this much.

But you did. And the ache of it was unbearable.

By the time the meal was nearly done, your patience had thinned to threads. Every laugh she directed at him felt like needles under your skin. Every glance she threw your way — measured, triumphant, as though reminding you of your place — made your lungs tighten.

You couldn’t take another second.

“Excuse me.” You murmured, rising abruptly, “I’ll fetch dessert.”

The scrape of your chair was louder than you intended. Sylus’s eyes flicked toward you, unreadable, but his gaze lingered. He noticed. He always did.

You didn’t wait for anyone to answer. You turned, fleeing the oppressive air of the dining room, the sound of Nara’s voice chasing you down the hall until you slipped into the sanctuary of the kitchen.

Here, finally, you let your breath rush out, shaky and uneven. You gripped the counter edge, knuckles white, staring at the gleaming surface until your reflection blurred. The fury in your chest was molten, but beneath it was something rawer, more dangerous. A hollow ache, a longing you could not name aloud.

You pressed your lips together hard, willing yourself not to cry. Because she didn’t matter. She shouldn’t matter. And yet — her proximity to him, her boldness, the way she dared — it carved into you deeper than any blade.

And the truth you were terrified to face was this: you wanted him. You had always wanted him. And watching someone else reach for him made that hunger unbearable.

The kitchen felt too small, too warm. You closed your eyes, shoulders heaving, trying to steady yourself.

You heard the footsteps before you felt him. Slow, deliberate. Not rushed, not hesitant. The way he always moved — measured, purposeful.

Your pulse stuttered, traitorous, when he stopped behind you. The kitchen air thickened, heavy with the quiet that stretched between you. You kept your hands pressed against the counter, nails biting faint crescents into the wood, refusing to turn.

“Sweetheart.” His voice was low, steady, meant for you alone.

Two syllables. Yet they unraveled something tight inside you. You didn’t answer. You were afraid of what might spill out if you did.

He stepped closer. You felt the warmth radiating from him even before his shadow brushed over yours, “What’s wrong?”

The question coiled through you like a tether. He knew. He always knew. That was what made it unbearable — how easily he could read what you would rather bury.

You bit the inside of your cheek, staring at your reflection in the polished pot resting on the counter. Your eyes looked brighter than you liked, too glossy. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let him see the sting there.

“It’s nothing.” You murmured.

The silence that followed was damning. He didn’t believe you. He never did. Another step, and now he was close enough that you felt the brush of his breath at the back of your neck. Your shoulders stiffened.

“It’s not nothing.” He said quietly, “Your hands are trembling.”

You cursed inwardly and jerked your fingers back, curling them into fists at your sides, “I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His tone sharpened, not cruel but cutting, like a blade that pared straight through pretense.

You whipped your head around, anger flaring as a shield for the storm beneath, “Why do you care?”

The words were out before you could stop them, raw, reckless. His eyes caught yours, and the force of them nearly made you stumble. Dark, smoldering, but not with anger. With something heavier. Something that scorched.

“I always care. I care because it's you.”

Your chest seized. He said it so simply, as though it was undeniable truth.

And suddenly you couldn’t breathe. Because this — this was the very thing you had been fighting against. The pull toward him. The need that clawed at you. The dangerous, forbidden want that had never really left.

You turned away sharply, pressing your palms flat against the counter once more, as though you could steady yourself against its cool surface. But his presence was a gravity you couldn’t escape.

“Don’t.” You whispered.

“Don’t what?” His voice lowered further, a dangerous softness.

“Don’t make it harder.”

Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. You felt his gaze burning into the side of your face. Finally, he moved. A hand, warm and steady, came to rest against the small of your back. Not forceful. Just there. Anchoring you, as if he knew you were about to drift apart in pieces.

“Tell me what’s hurting you.” He murmured.

The words cracked your resolve. Heat rushed to your throat, choking you. You swallowed hard, teeth clenching. You didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to give shape to the ugly, gnawing jealousy. But it slipped out anyway, bitter and sharp.

“She was sitting too close to you.”

There. The truth. Shameful and small, but real. For a moment, silence reigned. Then, his chest rumbled with a low sound—half sigh, half growl.

“You think I didn’t notice?”

Your breath caught. You glanced up at him, startled, and found his gaze locked on you with quiet intensity.

“I noticed everything.” He continued, voice steady, deliberate, “The way she leaned in. The way she tried to touch. The way she looked at you—mocking. You think I didn’t see?”

The heat that burned through you now wasn’t shame but something else — something sharp-edged, desperate.

You shook your head, voice hoarse, “Then why didn’t you stop her?”

“Sweetheart, I have half the mind to mutilate her beyond recognition.” His jaw flexed. He stepped closer, his hand sliding from your back to rest firmly at your hip, “But I can't because it affects you. Hurting her will affect Claire and I know how much she is dear to you.”

Your throat tightened. Your heart was a wild thing, battering itself against your ribs.

You turned sharply, facing him fully now. Your hands moved before thought could stop them, clutching at his collar, fisting the fabric of his shirt. The motion dragged him down, close enough that his breath mingled with yours, warm and intoxicating.

“Then tell me.” You demanded softly, eyes searching his with desperate intensity, “Tell me you love me.”

For a moment, he froze. His pupils flared, chest rising with a sharp inhale. Then—

“Yes.” The word left him like a vow, fierce and unhesitating, “I love you.”

The sound of it crashed through you, searing and devastating. Your knees nearly buckled, but you held on tighter to his shirt, tethered by the only thing keeping you upright.

Your lips parted, trembling. The words slipped out before you could stop them, low and deliberate.

“Kiss me.”

His eyes darkened, breath hitched. He leaned in, so close you felt the ghost of his lips grazing yours. But just as they brushed, you pushed lightly against his chest, stopping him.

His brows knitted, confusion flashing in his gaze.

“Not here.” You whispered, voice trembling but certain.

Then you tilted your head, baring your throat to him, guiding his face down with your grip still tangled in his collar. The steady beat of your pulse drummed wildly against the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Here.”

The word was both invitation and command. And Sylus—oh, Sylus obeyed.

He lunged like a starving man, lips crashing against the curve of your neck. His mouth was hot, desperate, leaving searing trails across your skin. A groan rumbled deep in his chest, muffled as he sucked at your flesh with a hunger that made your knees weaken.

“God.” He breathed against you, words muffled between fervent kisses, “If this is a dream, never let me wake up.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer, almost dizzy with the sheer force of him against you. Every press of his mouth branded you, and still it wasn’t enough.

But then— You wanted more. You wanted him on his knees. The thought took root in you suddenly, dangerously. And with it came a boldness that surprised even yourself.

You slid your hand up from his collar to his jaw, firm but gentle, guiding his face back. His lips were wet, parted, pupils blown wide with heat.

Before he could speak, you lifted your other hand and pressed your thumb against his mouth. His lips parted instinctively, and you slid it past, letting it rest on his tongue. The heat of his mouth enveloped your skin, wet and soft, and his eyes fluttered half-shut at the contact.

The sight nearly undid you.

“Good.” You whispered, voice rough, teasing, “Now—down.”

Your hand drifted from his mouth to the back of his neck, urging him lower. He didn’t resist. He sank, slow, reverent, until his knees touched the cool kitchen tile before you. And as he looked up at you from beneath his lashes, obedient and burning, you felt the storm inside you finally find its release.

The kitchen feels too small for the weight of him kneeling before you. You pull yourself up onto the counter.

Sylus Qin, the Qin prince, the man who makes entire underworld bow with nothing but his shadow — on his knees for you. The sight steals the air from your lungs, tightens your grip on the counter until the wood creaks.

He doesn’t break eye contact. His gaze locks on you with the intensity of a vow, dark and fevered, as if kneeling isn’t humiliation but worship.

And God, how it wrecks you.

Your hand lingers at the back of his neck, fingers buried in the soft strands of his hair. He tilts his head into the touch like it’s the only anchor he has. A low, guttural sound escapes him — half growl, half prayer — and it vibrates against your palm.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” His voice is rougher down here, stripped of all the iron control he wears like armor.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, your heart too loud. Instead, you slide your hand down, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He leans into it, desperate, as though every stroke of your skin writes commandments into his very flesh.

When his lips part, breath hot against the inside of your wrist, you feel the faint scrape of fangs. The reminder coils heat low in your belly — danger threaded with want.

You whisper his name before you can stop yourself, “Sylus…”

The sound of it unravels him. His hands, large and trembling with restraint, rise to your hips, not pulling, just resting there, reverent. As though he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds too tightly.

“Say it again.” He rasps.

You do. Softer this time. And it’s enough to shatter the last thread of composure he has left.

His grip tightens, dragging you flush against the counter edge. He buries his face against your abdomen, pressing desperate kisses through the fabric of your dress, breath burning against your skin. His teeth graze once, twice, not quite breaking, just teasing.

Your knees almost give. You clutch his shoulders, fingers digging into hard muscle, grounding yourself in the solidness of him.

“Gods.” He mutters against you, voice muffled but fervent, “If they saw me like this…” He shakes his head, laughter dark and breathless, “On my knees for you. They’d call me weak. Mad. Cursed.”

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, hunger and devotion tangled in equal measure.

“They’d be right,” You whisper.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then, instead of anger, his lips curve into something dangerous. A smile that belongs to no prince, no dragon — just a man undone.

“Yes.” He agrees, voice rough silk, “For you, I’ll gladly be cursed.”

He kisses your wrist then, slow, deliberate, fangs brushing lightly over your pulse. The sensation sends shivers darting down your spine.

And you realize — there’s no going back. Not from this. Not from him kneeling, worshipping, breaking himself open just to prove he’s yours. The pull you’ve fought for so long swallows you whole.

You felt every nerve in your body hum, the warmth from Sylus pressing against you, every inch of him consumed by the fire you’d ignited. And then your eyes drifted, almost absentmindedly, toward the kitchen door — and froze.

Nara stood there, jaw tight, eyes blazing. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her cheeks flushed with fury and disbelief. She had envisioned this night differently, imagined Sylus’ attention bending to her will, imagined herself the one guiding his every movement, commanding his devotion. But now… everything she had schemed for lay shattered, broken into a million irretrievable pieces right before her.

And all you felt was smug.

A slow, triumphant curl tugged at your lips as you watched her realization dawn, her posture stiffen with the weight of her defeat. Every flicker of her envy, every tiny quiver in her jaw, fueled a satisfaction deep and scorching. You had known all along how little claim she truly had on him, how hollow her attempts to impress or seduce him were.

Sylus, kneeling before you, between your legs, utterly devoted, worshipful, obeying your every subtle command, made her dreams crumble further. His hands, his lips, his gaze — all reserved for you — mocked Nara silently, and you leaned into it.

“Good boy.” You whispered, voice smooth and deliberate, the words tasting like victory on your tongue. Sylus obeyed instantly, as if he’d been waiting for the command all along.

Nara’s eyes widened imperceptibly at the words, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She had hoped, perhaps, that your control over him was temporary, a fluke — but no. Every subtle movement, every guiding touch of yours cemented her failure, and you reveled in it, every flicker of jealousy mirrored in her sharp, unspoken resentment.

You shifted slightly, letting your thumb brush teasingly against Sylus’ lips, and felt the way his body reacted, how every inch of him answered your touch, a living testament that she would never have this.

Her breath hitched audibly; she hadn’t intended to make a sound, but the tension in her chest betrayed her. You let your gaze linger on her, slow and deliberate, savoring the exact moment she realized that Sylus would never, could never, be hers.

And just like that, a thrill raced through you — not from the heat pressing against your skin, not from Sylus’ worship at your feet — but from the undeniable power of being the only one he could truly belong to.

You let the corner of your lips curl upward, impossibly smug, and turned your attention back to Sylus, letting him feel the triumph in your gaze. Nara might have wanted him, might have thought she could take him — but the truth had been made exquisitely clear.

He was yours. All yours.

Nara finally turned on her heel, storming out of the kitchen doorway. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor, a staccato punctuation to the fury and humiliation she carried with her.

You let your eyes follow her briefly, savoring the way her shoulders stiffened with frustration, the subtle flush that betrayed her jealousy. Good. Let her leave. She had no claim here, no hold over him — none whatsoever.

Your gaze shifted back to Sylus, kneeling before you, completely obedient, completely yours. A slow, deliberate smile curved your lips as you reached out and grasped his hair, tugging his head back gently but firmly. His lips parted instinctively, eyes flicking up to meet yours, dark and hungry.

You slid your thumb into his mouth, letting it rest lightly against his wet tongue, warm and slick. His pupils dilated slightly at the contact, the sound of his soft inhale resonating in the quiet kitchen.

“Get the dessert.” You whispered, voice smooth, teasing, full of authority, “We should not keep a guest waiting.”

He swallowed hard around your thumb, lips brushing it with careful, reverent motions. His body hummed with need, every inch of him betraying how much he obeyed you, craved you, reveled in the control you wielded.

You released his hair, getting down with a slow, languid grace. He remained on his knees, hot and breathless, utterly caught in the orbit of your dominance.

Without a backward glance, you left the kitchen, heels clicking softly against the tile, letting the door close behind you with a subtle finality.

Sylus stayed behind, head still tingling from your touch, body flushed, and utterly yours—left simmering in desire, the heat of your command lingering like a tangible presence in the air.

You allowed yourself a small, victorious smile as you moved away, every step a reminder: this was your kitchen, your rules, your Sylus. Nara had left defeated, and you had never felt more in control.

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