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His glowing gaze settled on the heart.

The mark pulsed beneath his attention.

“I’ve buried seven men,” I whispered. “Every one of them thought he might be different.”

Rain struck the roof of the car.

Yoichi's glowing gaze stayed on the mark. His grip on me tightened. He was quiet for a long moment. "Seven men?"

"Seven." My throat closed.

He sniffed the air. "The curse smells of. . .grief. Trauma. Darkness. But grief is what feeds it, and grief is a wound.”

I blinked.

He raised his hand to touch it. “Wounds close."

I leaned back. "But the women in my family have been fighting this for generations—"

"With spells. Not with healing." His thumb brushed the edge of the black heart, and the mark shivered under his touch. "There is a difference, little witch."

I pursed my lips.

He looked into my eyes. “Besides. . .you think a simple love curse can kill an eight-hundred-year-old kitsune?”

The arrogant bastard actually laughed.

I blinked. “But—”

“I’m close to being a god—”

“Yes. You told me that.” I rolled my eyes. “But this curse could—”

“Our bond will detonate that curse.”

I swallowed and looked down at the hands around his stomach. “And what about your curse?”

“That is different.”

“How?”

“A god put that there.”

The chauffeur returned to the driver’s seat.

The car rolled into the rainy Kyoto night.

I widened my eyes. “A. . .g-god?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Later?”

“After I’ve. . .helped you with your. . .heat.” Yoichi’s arms tightened around me, and I found myself curling closer instead of pushing him away.

His certainty should have terrified me.

Instead, I prayed he was right. Because wrapped in his arms, burning for a man I had met only hours ago and shot seven times before midnight, I wanted this to work.