“Okaaay,” I say carefully, slipping straight into EMT mode because what else do you do when a man in a burning house starts talking about destiny and darkness?
“Sir, have you taken anything tonight? Drugs? Alcohol?”
“I am intoxicated by naught but your beauty.”
I snort despite myself.
“Yeah, right. Okay. You’ve had your fun, but maybe we should bring you to the ER. Get a tox screen. Just to be safe.”
My mouth keeps moving, professional and automatic, but my heart is slamming against my ribs.
Because here’s the thing—he doesn’t look high. He doesn’t look drunk.
He looks sincere.
Earnest, even.
“Listen to me, Shula,” he says calmly, like the world is not burning down around us. “You are a woman of honor and bravery. You saw fire and ran toward it. I have been looking a long time for you.”
My pulse stutters again. “W—what?”
“And now,” he continues, voice steady and absolute, “you will come with me. To be my queen.”
I laugh.
I have to.
Because if I don’t, I might scream.
This is shock.
Smoke inhalation. Adrenaline.
My brain trying to protect itself.
“Okay—look,” I say, pulling back a step and lifting my hands between us like that might slow whatever this is. “That’s enough. You’re in distress.”
His eyes flicker—not with confusion, not with panic, but with something like impatience.
“I assure you,” he says evenly, “I am not.”
“But you can’t be serious.”
My voice comes out breathier than I intend.
Adrenaline is still buzzing through me, the house still burning behind us, sirens wailing like a bad soundtrack to a nightmare.
“Why can’t I be?”
“Y-you were standing in a fire. Smoke inhalation can cause delusions.
“Yet I remain untouched by flames.”
“How is this possible?” Fear, panic, and more so, curiosity fill me.
“I have come from very far to find you. You see, my world is under attack,” he says bluntly, like he’s stating the weather, “and I need you, Delia Esposito, to save it.”
He extends his hand.
