I climb the narrow stairs to the third floor, each step feeling like a monumental effort. My legs are still shaking, whether from cold or aftermath or the adrenaline crash, I can't tell. Maybe all three.
My door sticks like it always has, requiring a sharp shove to get it open. The hinges squeal in protest, and the sound is so normal, so ordinary, that it almost breaks me completely.
The apartment is exactly as I left it. Tiny and cramped and smelling faintly of the mold that grows in the corners no matter how much I scrub at it. The single window lets in just enough moonlight to illuminate the sparse furnishings—a narrow bed, a rickety table, one chair with a broken leg I've been meaning to fix for months.
This is my life. This is what I chose when I ran from Madam Cordelia's, when I decided freedom was worth more than comfort or safety. Four walls and a door I can lock, and the knowledge that no one owns me.
But as I sink onto the edge of the bed, still wearing a torn dress that smells like fire and sex and him, that freedom feels more like a prison than it ever has before.
Because the truth is, I don't want to be here. Don't want to be alone in this cold, empty space that suddenly feels like a tomb. I want to be back in his arms, in his bed, letting him touch me in ways that should terrify me but instead make me feel more alive than I've ever been.
And that's the real problem, isn't it? It's not the bond anymore. Hasn't been for days, maybe weeks.
My heart aches for him—for Mihalis, for his daughter, for the life I glimpsed in their warm, bright home. For the way he looked at me like I was precious instead of disposable. For the way he made me feel wanted instead of just used.
I press my hands to my chest, trying to contain the sharp, sweet pain of it. But it's too big, too overwhelming. I've spent so many years building walls around my heart, teaching myself not to want things I couldn't have, not to need people who would inevitably leave or hurt or disappoint me.
But Mihalis... gods, Mihalis makes me want to tear those walls down with my bare hands. Makes me want to trust in tomorrow and forever and all the pretty lies people tell themselves about love.
And that's the biggest mistake I could ever make.
I learned long ago that wanting things—wanting people—only leads to pain. The girls who fell for their clients' sweet words were the ones who ended up broken when those same men tossed them aside for newer, prettier toys. The ones who believed they were special, that they mattered beyond what their bodies could provide.
I swore I would never be one of those girls. Swore I would never let anyone close enough to destroy me.
But lying here in this cold, empty room, still trembling from his touch, I'm terrified that it's already too late.
16
MIHALIS
The first day without her feels like someone carved out my lungs with a rusty blade.
I sit in my office, staring at the ledgers spread across the desk where she writhed beneath me just hours ago. The numbers blur together, meaningless scratches of ink that might as well be written in a language I've never learned. Every few minutes, my eyes drift to the spot where she stood before I lost all control, where she goaded me into admitting what I wanted.
Everything.I told her I wanted everything, and she gave it to me. Then she ran.
The smart thing would be to go after her. Track her down, drag her back, complete this damned bond before it kills us both. But I promised her space when she needed it. Promised her choice, even when every instinct in my body screams at me to hunt her down and never let her go again.
So I let her run. And now I'm paying the price.
By the second day, my hands shake when I try to pour Amerinth. The bottle slips from my fingers twice before I give up entirely, leaving the purple liquid to stain the papers scattered across my desk. The accounts for Vestige can burn for all I care.Numbers mean nothing when my chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself.
Thera finds me hunched over the desk, head buried in my hands, trying to will away the nausea that's been my constant companion since Heidi walked out that door.
"You look like death warmed over." She sets down a tray of food I know I won't touch. "When's the last time you ate?"
"Not hungry." My voice comes out as a croak. Even speaking feels like dragging glass up my throat.
"Bullshit." The tray clatters as she slams it down harder. "You're wasting away to nothing. Ilyra's been asking if you're ill, Varos keeps checking if you need a healer, and Irida?—"
"Don't." The word rips from me with enough force to make her step back. "Don't tell me what my daughter thinks."
Because I know what Irida thinks. I can see it in the way she watches me with those wide golden eyes, the same eyes I see in the mirror every morning. She knows something's wrong with her father, knows I'm breaking apart piece by piece, but she's too young to understand why.
Too young to understand that I've gone and fallen in love with a human thief who wants nothing to do with the cage I've built around my life.
Thera's expression softens, but her voice stays sharp. "She's asking for Heidi. Every day. Where is she, when is she coming back, can we visit her. What am I supposed to tell a six-year-old when her father looks ready to keel over from grief?"
