“This isn’t over,” she said.
“Yes.” Victor’s voice was quiet, but it carried across the silent ballroom. “It is.”
She vanished in a spiral of crimson smoke, leaving the distinct smell of burnt sugar and wounded pride behind.
“Well,” Beleth cooed into the ringing silence. “That was dramatic.”
The gala continued for another hour, though the energy had shifted. Forced mingling gave way to genuine curiosity as associates and partners alike studied Victor and Ava with new eyes. The couple who’d somehow formed a soul bond in three weeks. The human who’d bound herself to the demon everyone thought was beyond reaching.
They moved through it like dancers who’d rehearsed their steps for years: perfectly synchronized, both exhausted from the performance but unwilling to show weakness. Victor’s hand never left hers. Her shoulder stayed pressed to his. When partners approached to offer congratulations or veiled interrogations, they answered together, finishing each other’s sentences with an ease that wasn’t entirely performance anymore.
Finally, mercifully, Grimm declared the evening concluded.
Back in their suite,Ava kicked off her heels while Victor loosened his tie with obvious relief. The penthouse felt different now: less like a gilded cage and more like a sanctuary. Their sanctuary.
The moonlight streaming through the windows was the same silver as on the beach. Here it felt softer. Safer. It caught the angles of Victor’s face as he stood by the window, still processing everything that had happened.
“A hundred years,” she said quietly, curling onto the couch. “You’ve been carrying that guilt for a hundred years.”
He didn’t turn around. “It gets easier to carry things when you’ve had practice.”
“That’s not the same as it getting lighter.”
He was silent. She felt his surprise through the bond: that she understood, that she wasn’t offering platitudes or easy comfort.
“I should have told you sooner,” he said finally, turning to face her. The moonlight painted him in silver and shadow, softening the sharp edges she was used to. “About Celeste. About Prague. About all of it.”
“When? During our fake first date? Over coffee and contract negotiations?” She patted the couch beside her. “You told me when it mattered. That’s what counts.”
He crossed the room and sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. She felt his exhaustion through the bond now: not physical, but emotional. Old memories dragged into the light and refusing to go quietly.
“Does it change things?” he asked quietly. “Knowing what happened to someone who tried to force what we have?”
“Yes,” she said.
His fear spiked through the bond, sharp and cold, before she continued.
“It makes me love you more.”
He turned to look at her. The moonlight caught the gold flecks in his eyes, made them glow like distant stars.
“Victor.” She shifted to face him properly, taking his hands in hers. “She wanted — I don’t know what she wanted from you. I’m not her. I’m just here. That’s all I’ve got.”
She felt it through the bond: the moment the words landed. A fist she hadn’t realized he’d been making, finally opening.
“I love you,” he said. The words came out rough, like he was still learning how to say them. Like a hundred years of silence had made his voice rusty.
“I know.” She smiled, leaning into him. “I can literally feel it.”
“That’s cheating.”
“That’s efficiency.”
He laughed, really laughed, the sound surprised out of him, and pulled her against his side. She tucked herself into the curve of his arm, feeling his heartbeat slow and steady beneath her cheek.
For a moment the bond went quiet. Not gone — just silent, the way a phone line goes dead for half a second before reconnecting. They both felt it. Neither mentioned it.
The bond hummed between them, no longer overwhelming. Just present.
