“No,” I snorted. “Not betrothed. Not engaged. Not promised to anyone. It’s—” I waved a hand, trying to pick the exact words that wouldn’t make him stare at me like I’d committed treason. “It’s casual. It’s sex with a person who buys me pizza and does not ask my entire life history before dessert. No strings, no expectations, no one trying to rebrand my personality to make me more palatable to their family or friends.”
He crossed his arms. “A date,” he repeated, as if I’d said I was going to perform a ritual sacrifice. “You allow strange men into your dwelling to plunder you without earning your allegiance?”
I gaped at him. “It’s called casual sex, not plundering, Cristian.”
He looked genuinely pained. “The distinction is lost on me.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “If you show him your fangs, I swear to God, I will pour garlic oil into your shampoo.”
“Garlic oil in my haircare would be catastrophic,” he said, with the solemnity of someone announcing a family tragedy. Then, as if the practicalities of domestic warfare mattered more than his principles, he surprised me by asking, “Tell me the rules.”
Relief popped somewhere low in my chest. I listed them off for him. “No murder. No biting. No interrogations. No dramatic speeches about honor. If you want to be polite, a nod will do. If you try intimidation tactics, Iwillthrow you out on the lawn. Preferably, you just…stay out of the way somewhere.”
He inclined his head once. “I can try and obey that.”
“You won’t sabotage this?” I asked.
He tilted his head slightly. “I will not sabotage something that grants you agency,” he said, and he sounded genuine. “I only dislike feeling useless.”
“You can be not useless and not murdery at the same time,” I said quickly.
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite a lie. “Of course,” he said. “I will stay out of it.”
There was a pause. The tether hummed between us.
“But,” he added softly, “if this man proves unworthy, I reserve the right to intervene.”
I groaned. “That’s literally the definition of sabotage.”
He looked pleased. “Then we understand each other.”
He went quiet for a beat, tried to smile, failed. Somehow that made it worse for my heart. I wanted to be mad at him.
Finally, he spoke, “Very well. Invite him.”
“I already did.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Here. I can’t exactly leave the premises without passing out in the street due to our bond.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “Good.”
I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. It was automatic and thoughtless. He didn’t flinch. That was new.
Trent texted to say he was on his way. I stared at the message, then locked my phone and turned toward the fridge.
I grabbed the wine, did a quick mirror check, and whispered my affirmations under my breath:I choose rest without earning it. I choose pleasure without explanation. I am allowed to be messy. I am allowed pleasure without guilt.
I straightened my blazer and waited for the knock on the door, hopeful, yet braced for disaster.
Somewhere upstairs, the floorboards creaked in warning.
Trent was hot in that polished, gym-membership-subscriber kind of way—short hair, good posture, confident enough to call me “adorable” without flinching. Under normal circumstances, I might have been into it.
But the entire time he talked, my focus kept bouncing between his face, the hum of the tether in my chest, and the heavy footsteps pacing directly above us.
Cristian.
