It's partially true. Even after more than a week of coming here with him, Vestige still fascinates me. The careful choreography of power plays, the way Mihalis moves through the space like a predator surveying his territory. Tonight I watch him work—settling a dispute between two xaphan nobles, reviewing reports from his security team, checking on the private rooms where darker pleasures unfold behind closed doors.
He's magnificent here, commanding in ways that make something low in my belly clench with want despite feeling like hell. The club amplifies everything dangerous about him—the way his eyes glow when someone tests his patience, how his voice drops to a lethal purr when giving orders. He wears authority like other men wear clothes, natural and absolute.
But he also watches me constantly, those molten gold eyes tracking my movement even when he's across the room handling business. When I sway slightly during a particularly heated exchange between rival gang members, he's at my side before I can blink.
"Sit," he orders, guiding me to one of the high-backed chairs in his private section.
"I'm fine?—"
"You're pale." His fingers brush my cheek, and I lean into the touch before I can stop myself. "When did you last eat?"
"This morning." The lie comes easily, but his expression tells me he's not buying it. Truth is, food has been turning my stomach for days. I've been picking at meals, pushing things around my plate while pretending to eat.
He signals one of the servers, and within minutes a plate of simple food appears—bread, cheese, some kind of roasted meat that actually smells appealing. My stomach rumbles despite itself.
"Eat," he commands, and there's no arguing with that tone.
I manage a few bites before the nausea returns with a vengeance. Mihalis is called away to handle some crisis in the VIP section, but not before ordering two of his guards to keep an eye on me. I spend the rest of the evening fighting waves of dizziness, trying to look like I'm not falling apart.
By the time we return home, exhaustion has settled so deeply into my bones that climbing the stairs feels like a monumental task. But Irida is waiting for us, bouncing with excitement about her day, and I force myself to focus on her animated retelling of a story about magical birds that talk backwards.
"Can we read together before bed?" she asks, tugging on my hand with both of hers. "I want to show you the book about the fire princess!"
"Of course," I manage, even though the thought of sitting still and focusing on words makes my head spin.
Mihalis catches my elbow as we head upstairs, steadying me when I sway slightly. His touch burns through my sleeve, and the bond thrums with approval even as my body rebels.
"You need rest," he says quietly.
"After story time."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. We've developed these small rituals over the past week—reading to Irida together, talking about her day, the comfortable domesticity of putting a child to bed. It should feel foreign, this family routine I've never been part of, but instead it feels... right. Like something I've been missing without knowing it.
Irida curls between us on her enormous bed, the fire princess book open across our laps. But the words blur together on thepage, and I find myself leaning more heavily against Mihalis's solid warmth. His arm comes around me automatically, and I let myself sink into his strength even as my mind screams warnings about dependence, about letting my guard down.
"The princess used her fire magic to melt the ice dragon's heart," Irida reads, her small finger tracing the words. "And they became best friends forever and ever."
"Forever is a long time," I murmur without thinking.
"But that's what makes it special," she says with the absolute certainty only children possess. "Forever means you never have to worry about someone leaving."
I've never had forever with anyone. Never even wanted it, because forever means vulnerability, means giving someone the power to destroy you. But sitting here with Mihalis's arm around me and his daughter's warm weight against my side, I can almost imagine what that kind of security might feel like.
Almost.
"Time for sleep, little spark," Mihalis says when the story ends. His voice carries that special gentleness he reserves only for her, and watching him with Irida does something dangerous to my chest every single time.
She hugs us both goodnight, fierce little arms squeezing tight. "I love you, Dad. I love you, Heidi."
The words stop my heart. She says them so easily, with such trust, like love is something simple and uncomplicated. I manage to whisper them back, though my throat feels raw.
We tuck her in together, a choreographed dance we've somehow perfected over the past week. Mihalis adjusts her blankets while I arrange her favorite stuffed creatures within arm's reach. He checks the warming stones that keep her room comfortable while I make sure her water glass is full. Small tasks that feel enormous in their domesticity.
When we finally step into the hallway and close her door, the silence between us feels charged with everything we're not saying. The bond pulses with awareness, with the need to be closer, to touch, to acknowledge what's building between us.
But I also feel like I'm going to collapse, and I can't hide it anymore.
"Heidi." His voice is rough as we walk toward my room. "We need to talk."
