His words were sharp as razors, but something didn’t match. His red eyes brightened as he stared—burning with something not at all like malice.
Like interest.
“I can’t stand the sight of you,” he added.
And yet…he held me captive. And looked. Always looked like I was a puzzle piece jammed in the wrong board. Like he couldn’t decide whether to rip it out or keep pressing.
I squared my shoulders.
“You’ve said that before,” I muttered, waving my sword lazily, as if dismissing the weight of his stare. My eyes dropped to his bare chest—ripped, scarred, skin crawling with unnatural movement—and I swallowed before adding, “The feeling’s mutual.”
Slowly, he stepped closer.
“I know. You’re shaking. Always shaking around me.”
I glanced down and realized my sword trembled in my grip.
Damn it.
I lowered the weapon and looked away.
Heat bloomed in my cheeks—not from desire, not from his body or his words.
But from shame.
“And you’ve been crying.”
I froze, then reached up, startled to feel dampness on my cheeks. The tears surprised me more than his observation. Dad’s words echoed in my mind like a cruel wind through hollow bones, and I fought the new wave welling behind me. I didn’t understand why it gutted me so badly. It wasn’t like I desired theDevil—Hades, I didn’t even like him. But the idea of my father being disappointed with me… that wound had no shield.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought, but that distraction gave the Devil his opening.
In a flash, his hand shot forward, gripping my weapon. He wrenched it free and tossed it aside like it were nothing more than a toy.
I arched a brow, a spark of irritation flaring. “I can materialize it right back into my hold.”
“And I’ll take it again,” he replied, tone maddeningly calm.
He stepped in—too close—and I caught the scent of him: scorched sugar and smoke, like burned marshmallows. My stomach twisted. Not in hunger. Not exactly. But in that strange bloom of heat low in my belly, a void that wasn’t empty but… waiting.
It wasn’t the usual pain of my curse, the consuming hunger that clawed through me. This was quieter. Warmer. Worse.
“Let me go,” I said under my breath, tugging at my arm. There was no give.
His grip didn’t tighten. He didn’t need to. He simply held. Dominant, unmoving, like a mountain watching an avalanche try to push it.
So I did what I knew: dropped my weight and bent my knees, aiming to flip him over my shoulder like I had once before.
For a moment, it almost worked.
He staggered, just slightly, and I stumbled into him.
He caught me.
One hand moved to my hip, locking me in place. The other released my wrist, as if to grant me some illusion of freedom.
“You and your absurd strength,” he muttered, almost like he was speaking to himself.
Then, with unsettling ease, he slipped his arms beneath mine—hands under my pits—and lifted me like I weighed nothing. My boots left the ground.
