“I’m a person who’s made her own tea before. Unlike some immortal demons I could mention.”
He shot her a look that was pure wounded dignity, then turned back to the kettle with renewed determination. After three more button presses, water started heating. He turned around with a triumphant expression.
“See? Perfectly capable.”
“You put in way too much water.”
“There’s no such thing as too much water.”
“For two cups of tea? That’s going to take twenty minutes to boil.”
He looked at the kettle, then back at her. “We have twenty minutes.”
She laughed despite herself, a real laugh, surprised out of her by the absurdity of the moment. Here they were, fresh off an argument about immortality and sacrifice and the nature of love,and he was standing in his designer kitchen looking genuinely confused by a kettle.
“Come here,” she said, holding out her hand.
He crossed to her, stepping between her knees where she sat on the counter. This close, she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. The lingering pain from the brand. The way he was looking at her like she might disappear if he blinked.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He leaned his forehead against hers. His answer came not in words but in a wave of emotion that rolled through her. He didn’t answer in words. But through the bond she felt him stop bracing for impact.
“I’m learning to,” he said.
The kettle beeped. He kissed her once, quick and soft, then went to deal with the tea situation.
It took another ten minutes and two YouTube tutorials on Ava’s phone before they had two actual cups of tea: green for her, something dark and smoky for him that he’d found in the back of a cabinet and couldn’t remember buying.
They moved to the couch, sitting close enough that their knees touched. The apartment was still dark except for the city lights through the windows, and the quiet felt different now. Less heavy. More like rest.
“My mother texted,” Ava said, checking her phone. “She says my father hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Unclear. He keeps saying things like ‘that demon has honorable hands’ and then staring at the door you can’t walk through.”
“Honorable hands?”
“I think it’s a translation thing. He means you did something worthy.”
Victor was quiet for a moment, looking down at his branded palm.
“Honorable,” he said, like he was testing the word. “That’s new.”
They talked about other things after that. Derek’s research into Marchosias. What they might find in the archives. Whether Lilith would stay quiet in Tokyo.
Later, much later, they went to bed. Not desperate this time. Just close. Just together.
Victor fell asleep first, unusual for him, but it had been a long day. Ava lay beside him in the dark, feeling his presence through the bond, watching the city lights paint shadows on the ceiling.
Ten days until the deadline. A Duke of Hell waiting to review their case. Two million dollars still hanging over her parents’ heads.
Victor shifted in his sleep, and his branded hand brushed against hers.
