The inquiry escapes with genuine curiosity—if he's hybrid like me, understanding both aspects of his nature seems essential to understanding him at all.
His chuckle carries darkness that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"If I told you," he murmurs, "you wouldn't have appetite for that possessive being of yours."
Possessive being.
What—
"GREEEE!"
The exclamation erupts between our faces with the particular enthusiasm of small reapers materializing where they haven't been invited.
I blink.
Grim.
The tiny harbinger hovers in the space that separated Koi's lips from mine, his miniature scythe waving with obvious agitation. Black smoke puffs from somewhere—his version of heavy breathing perhaps, or simply dramatic emphasis on his displeasure. He huffs and waves his weapon as if trying to shoo Koi away from my personal space, void eyes somehow conveying protective indignation despite lacking the features necessary for such expression.
"Grim?" I manage, still processing his sudden appearance.
More huffing. More black smoke. The scythe waves with increased urgency.
Koi's smirk returns, unperturbed by the small reaper's aggressive intervention.
"Time's up," he observes, something in his tone suggesting he expected this interruption, perhaps even waited for it. "The Dusk Heir is mad."
Dusk Heir.
Cassius.
Cassius is?—
Koi snaps his fingers.
Magic responds immediately—a small wind manifesting from nothing, catching Grim's tiny form and shooing him sideways with gentle but insistent force. The little reaper squeaks his characteristic "Greeee!" as he tumbles through air, scythe flailing, robes billowing in currents that shouldn't exist.
I turn my head to track where he lands.
But fingers catch my chin.
Force my face back.
Up.
Lips claim mine.
The kiss is brief—barely a moment, barely time for my brain to register what's happening before it's over. Yet it feels like a lifetime compressed into a heartbeat, sensation cascading through my systems with intensity that leaves me breathless. His mouth is cool against mine, carrying the particular chill of his frost-touched magic, and the taste of him...
Midnight flowers and winter storms.
Power and patience intertwined.
"Till we speak again, my Queen."
The whisper brushes against my lips.
Then he's gone.
