Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Money was tight and the funerals had been expensive. It wasn't like the Association paid particularly well. You'd been at the mall looking through part-time job listings when a woman in a polished skirt set approached you. She handed you an envelope and said, 'call if interested.'

At first you thought it was a joke. 

Then, absolutely ridiculous. 

Then, you felt a bit insulted - what was it about your appearance that made you a target for this?

Finally the lure of two months' pay for just a few hours of work started to sound tempting. 

And that was how you found yourself four weeks later on the phone with your 'handler' talking you through the finer details of tonight’s engagement. Your first. 

“Did you get the package I sent?”

“Yes,” you nod. Condoms, lube, sanitizer, various toiletries and a bottle of wine. 

“Should I bring wine glasses?” You ask. 

Her laugh on the other end of the line is grating. 

“Of course not. You think our clients drink screw top wine?”

“...”

“Pour a glass and chug it.”

You hesitate.

“I'd rather not.”

“This isn't up for debate, newbie. Drink it or you'll creep out the client with your anxiety.”

Dressed in a pink slip and high heels they'd sent, you were starting to get sick of being puppeted. Patting your thigh you feel for the reassuring presence of your holster and firearm. 

“I don't hear pouring…” Her grating voice comes through. 

With a sigh, you grab a glass and pour generously, pounding it back in two breaths. 

“Now brush your teeth. Mouthwash and Vaseline on your lips.”

You pull the phone away and glare at it but follow her instructions. This would all be over and your debts would be cleared by the morning. 

“The car is outside. Don't make them wait. They'll pick you up when you call so give them a ring and wait in the room until they get there. No lingering in the lobby or we won't be able to keep using this hotel.”

“Anything else?” Your irritation slips through. 

“Yes. Wear a coat, get to the room early and warm yourself up. Don't be weird. Good luck newbie.”

“My name is–”

The dial tone interrupts you when she hangs up. 

PING

The driver is waiting for you. It's now or never. Wishing you had a longer warmer coat, you step into the elevator. For once you're lucky not to run into a nosy neighbor as you leave the building and step into the black Escalade waiting for you. 

It's in a swanky part of Linkon. Not exactly what you pictured when you thought of something like this but, given the rate you'd agreed on, it made sense that it wasn't in a by the hour motel. 

The lobby is warm and inviting, littered with fireplaces and poufy round lounge furniture but you don't pause to sit or speak to anyone. Following the extremely detailed instructions, you walk past the front desk, into the elevator bank and tap your key card to the scanner. 

PENTHOUSE

The top button is oblong - wider than the rest of the floors and lights up red when you press it.

DING 

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse suite and you step out. 

“Hello?”

You call out, but no one answers. 

Tapping your holster again, you reassure yourself. You weren't helpless, in any case.

Still, there was supposed to be someone here to protect you if things went awry.

You check each room, opening closet doors and checking bathrooms, showers and under beds. For what exactly you aren't sure. In the main bedroom, you scout out a place to hide your gun, ultimately deciding on the bedside table. 

Once you've made sure that your assigned security guard isn't just hiding or late you decide to call your handler. 

Pulling out your phone, you redial the most recent number and wait while it rings three times. 

“Where's my security?” You ask without preamble.

“Hmm? Oh, the client paid a premium to waive it.”

Huh?! That had not been listed as an option on the ‘menu’ you read. 

“What? But, you said there’d always be someone here?”

“Oh honey. The amount he paid, we don't really care what he does to you.”

The line goes dead.

Fuck this. 

You had not agreed to these terms. Grabbing your coat and holster, you're about to shrug both back on when the elevator sounds in the background. 

DING!

Too late. You drop the coat and holster and grab your gun from the table, smacking the baseplate and racking it out of habit. 

Heart racing you move to the doorway and move out of habit as if you were sweeping a hostile territory. Bracing yourself with the muzzle pointed to the ceiling you turn the corner and advance. 

Just to come face to face with, perhaps, the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. 

He raises his arms in the sign of surrender and cocks a small smile. 

“Don't shoot.” 

His hair is perfectly coiffed, piled effortlessly atop a face far too pretty for any man to possess. A strong brow frames eyes like liquid garnet, and beneath them a Grecian nose, almost straight, with the faintest aristocratic hook. 

But it was his mouth that held you. The lower lip was full, soft in contrast to the sharpness above, while the upper, shaped like a fine bow, dipped slightly at the center, giving a trace of sorrow to an otherwise devil-may-care expression.

Suddenly his right eye glows and several images flash through your mind’s eye. 

Him, sucking at your throat hard enough to leave a mark. Him, all bare skin and rippling muscle hovering over you, smirking as you writhe under him. Him, alone in a nondescript shower, water running down his chest in rivulets, his head thrown back in pleasure, mouth open and hand holding his-

A resounding laugh barks out of him and breaks you free from the spell. Keeping your eyes trained on his chest and safely away from the glowing eye you aim at his heart and ask, “what are you?”

“Your client.” 

Impossible. 

He nods towards your phone discarded on the counter, “check.”

Walking sideways with your gun trained on him, you move towards the counter keeping one hand on the trigger and check your phone. There's one text. It reads simply: he’s arrived with a photo that matches the man in front of you. 

Oh. 

You lower the muzzle but keep the gun in a low ready position. 

“Been busy?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the open doors and cabinets in the formal receiving room. 

“What do you want from me?” You ask, still suspicious that this man was only here for his stated purposes. 

“What does any man want from a beautiful woman?”

There's no way this was just about sex. Your suspicion only heightens when his lips draw into a predatory smile.

“Can we put the gun away?” He asks, “if you were going to shoot me, you would've already done it.”

Switching the safety back on, you lower it completely and place it on the counter next to you. 

“Don't be too sure about that.” You warn. 

“Is this how you greet every new client?” 

His hands lower and he brushes invisible dust off of his shoulders. 

“You're the first so, yes. What's your Evol?”

He smiles tightly and laughs again.

“I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Desire.” 

Well that made sense. At least his preferences seemed relatively vanilla after all, but then he clarifies, “I can see other’s desires.”

Oh. 

A blush, certainly aided by the wine you'd swigged earlier, colors your cheeks. 

“What do you want?” You ask again, “be specific.”

He holds out a hand and walks towards you. Your heart pounds when he comes to stand a breath apart from you. 

“Let’s sit.”

When you still hesitate, he scoffs and shakes his head, pulling a thin envelope and handing it to you. 

“This should help ease the pain.”

With some suspicion, you slide a finger under it and pull out a check. It wasn't the two-months paycheck you expected. It was twelve. A full annual salary. Your knees hit the couch as you sink down.

What kind of sick shit was this guy into?

He sniffs at the air and suddenly turns towards you accusingly.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” But the blush on your cheeks only deepens. He gives you a sidelong glance as if he is somehow the morally superior one here.

“I can smell it on your breath.” He deadpans. 

“They told me to have a drink before coming here.”

“And do you listen to everything they tell you to do?”

“Are you lecturing me? I’m not the one here who ordered a hooker.”

He raises both eyebrows at you. 

“I thought you would prefer the term ‘companion.’”

“Is this part of your kink? Verbal sparring?”

His lips quirk into a smirk.

“Sometimes.”

He holds his hand out, palm up towards you and waits. Pulse racing, you carefully place your hand on his. He doesn't escalate any further or pull you to stand or lay down. You stay sitting and he closes his eyes in concentration. 

Strands of black and red energy swirl around your combined hands and you laugh before you can help it. 

“Resonance? Sorry buddy, that kind of intimacy is something money can't buy.”

He ignores your taunt and tightens his grip, attempting to interlink your Evols. 

“Try.” He grinds out. 

The only person you've ever resonated with is Caleb, your foster brother and even that was after years of living together and bonding deeply. 

Pushing a faint pulse of Evol outwards you pretend to attempt it. 

“You can do better than that.”

No fooling him, then.

Closing your eyes you try to concentrate. You picture Caleb but can't summon the feelings of warmth and comfort you want. Instead only grief heavy and painful crashes into you. 

The energy around you both fizzles and dissipates. 

“Let's move on to the intimacy money can buy then.”

Your heart races as he pulls you to stand and leads you to the primary suite room, only slightly wobbly in your sky high heels. 

“On the bed.” He orders.

The field of vision narrows as your eyes tunnel and heat crawls through your body. This was really happening. 

You hesitate a moment and he tilts his head in question. 

“My shoes?” 

With an eye roll he kneels down, pushing your hips backwards along the way so you're seated on the edge of the bed. His large warm hands run along the outside of your legs and despite everything desire pools in you. The skin on his palms is calloused and rough but his touch is gentle.

Kneeling on the ground, he looks up at you with ruby red eyes and unbuckles one strappy shoe, then the other. 

Was it his Evol, the wine or the adrenaline that made this so attractive? 

“On your stomach.”

Holy fuck. 

Liquid pools at your core and seeps into your panties. If you'd been sitting, there would undoubtedly be a stain on your silk dress. 

Trembling, you crawl on all fours to the center of the bed and lay down. He inhales deeply then chuckles. 

“Like this?” You ask. 

“Just like that.” He answers, his voice is a deep purr of approval and it warms you even more to hear it. 

His footsteps click clack around the bed and your breathing picks up in anticipation. 

What was he going to do? Was he going to get something? Someone? Strip? 

Would he take you like this- prone and facing away? 

Maybe he was using you as a stand in for some long lost love.

DING! 

Huh? That was the elevator. 

Has someone arrived? 

You stay still for another moment before scrambling to your feet. 

The suite is empty but your phone buzzes twice. 

Just Now

Unknown: from now on you have no other clients but me

Unknown: await further instructions, kitten 

What the fuck. 

Brrrrring!

“Hello?” You ask.

“Whatever he put you through was totally worth it. He loved you. Booked exclusive service for the next year. Best commission I've had in ages.”

Your handler. 

“Don't I have a choice in this?”

“You aren't exactly in this for the love of the game. Congrats on your first kill.”

Chapter Text

For two weeks you jump every time your phone buzzes. The anticipation is terrible. What would be the price you paid for accepting an unimaginable sum?

Inevitably, the reality of his demands would be worse than anything you could conjure. 

He’d left you prone to make a point. 

But what point? 

That you obeyed him? 

That he controlled you?

Swiping your phone open, you check your account balance. Again. 

Even after paying off every overdrawn credit card and outstanding bill, it was still higher than it had ever been before. Had an extra comma you’d never seen. After the check cleared, a mysterious wire transfer had been initiated, depositing some kind of kicker bonus. 

Maybe he enjoyed being financially dominated. 

That was a thing, right? 

The call finally comes on a mission with Simone. You are stalking a wanderer when your phone rings. Silenced. It rings again. Silenced. It rings again.

“What?” It’s a whisper-yell as you crouch behind cover.

“Your client booked you again. Be ready in twenty minutes.”

The wretched handler. 

“What?! I can’t! I’m at work.”

“You have a job?”

“Yes.”

“One that pays more than your client?”

“...No.”

“Then be ready. Eighteen minutes now.”

“But–”

The dial tone cuts off your response. Fuck. Your phone buzzes.

Change in the back of the car. There’s mouthwash and perfume. Driver is at your location.

When had you agreed to share your location with them?

You can’t abandon Simone mid-fight. But the money is already in your account and you have already paid off your debts. 

Sighing, you roll your neck and step out from behind cover. Slicing a shallow cut into your forearm you use the scent of your blood to lure it out. The wanderer comes into view and you fire three times into its open, ugly maw. It collapses into itself and dissolves until only ash remains.

“Damn, girl.” Simone walks out from behind her cover, “that was badass.”

A shrug. What could you say? 

“Can you submit the protocore for analysis? I'll see you back at HQ.”

“What’s the rush?”

“Just remembered I have something I have to get to. An appointment  – sorry!”

You’d have to come up with a better excuse later. 

And remember to volunteer for more solo missions going forward. 

Thank God Xavier was away on a months-long conference. There’s no way he’d let you go without asking twenty questions. 

The same black Escalade is waiting for you on the curb and you slide into it. 

“Miss.” The driver greets you with a nod, reaching back to hand you a discreet black bag.

A dress, heels, a toiletry bag and a mini-bottle of vodka. You leave the bottle unopened. One lecture from your client was enough for a lifetime.

The driver rolls up the divider to give you privacy and you snort at the absurd show of propriety.

No way are you leaving your firearms in the car. Both thighs are holstered, the pleats in the minidress barely have enough material to cover them. 

Folding your sweaty uniform up, you tuck the boots and clothing into the other side of the backseat. A quick wipe down, fresh deodorant and a spritz of expensive perfume will have to do. There’s a small purse included with your get up and you shove toiletries and the vodka bottle in. Just in case.

The car drives for a good thirty minutes before finally pulling up to the same hotel as last time. 

He’s standing on the sidewalk, leaning against a vintage sports car. Your heart skips a beat. He looks incredible in a black suit and white shirt, top two buttons open.

Of course. 

Smoothing your hair into a high ponytail you swish the mouthwash around your tongue, knocking on the divider and pointing at your cheeks when he rolls it down. 

Obligingly, he hands you a cup and you spit out the spent liquid. 

“Sorry.” You say as he takes the cup back into the front seat.

“Not at all, Miss.”

Well, at least someone in this perverse world had manners. 

The driver parks the car and walks around, holding the door open for you as you struggle to get out gracefully in another set of sky high heels without revealing the weapons attached to your upper thighs. The client walks up to you right away, looking you up and down. 

“You’re late.” His tone is accusatory.

“For what?” Yours, defensive.

He doesn’t answer.

“Get in.” He gestures towards the passenger side.

A second location? No way. 

You shake your head ‘no.’

“You already agreed to my terms.” He bites out.

“No. I didn’t agree to go to an undisclosed location.”

“As soon as you hit ‘accept wire transfer’ you agreed to every one of my terms for the next eleven-and-a-half months.”

He inspects his fingernails with a bored monotone. Scowling, you attempt to walk past him into the hotel lobby but he grabs your wrist.

“What are you wearing?” He asks, tone tinged with something like disgust. “I don’t think they’ll let you in, dressed like this.”

Your chest and neck flush as you realize there was no coat included with your outfit this time. The driver has already pulled away. You’re standing in the road in a lacy black slip of a dress better categorized as lingerie than streetwear. 

His hand comes up to your shoulder, bare knuckle grazing the thin strap.

“No bra?” He asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

You focus your gaze on the road and try to ignore the way your stomach jumps as he looks down at your chest.

“What do you expect a hooker to show up to a hotel in?” You demand, offended by his offense.

“Companion, please.” He corrects and you roll your eyes before explaining.

“They didn’t send one. I was wearing a sports bra under my uniform. This isn’t exactly a convenient time for me.”

He laughs sardonically.

“I was expecting you to arrive in your uniform. It’s business hours after all. Still,” he pulls his hand away, “this will have to do.”

He opens the passenger side but you don’t get in. Suddenly black and red mist encircles your entire body and with a swooping motion you’re forced into the seat. The door slams behind you and he's already in the driver's seat.

“How??”

“My Evol has more than one practical application.”

You cross your arms over your chest and huff. It’s cold inside of the car and your nipples are pebbling under the thin fabric. If he notices he doesn’t say anything, just shifts the car into gear and drives.

“Where are we going?” You finally ask.

“Now that would be telling.” He smirks and keeps his eyes on the road. 

In the car, it’s silent until he flicks on some smooth jazz. Charlie Parker’s name scrawls across the digital screen. The contrast is surreal but the familiarity of the music helps to ease some of your anxiety. 

The buildings outside of the car grow further and further apart as you drive through the outskirts of Linkon and move somewhere you’ve never dared venture.

“We aren’t going to the N109 Zone.”

He smiles. Small at first then wider. He glances at your face but makes no reply.

“That’s suicide!” You exclaim, but he only grins wider. 

“Why do you think I brought you?” he asks, “aren’t you a trained hunter?”

“You brought me to be your… what? Human shield?” Your voice is getting tighter and higher pitched.

“What’s the matter? You didn’t come unarmed did you?”

“Of course not.” Tapping your holsters, you reassure yourself and feel validated by your choice to equip double holsters this morning. 

“What’s wrong then, are you drunk again?”

You pull out the unopened vodka bottle and toss it at his head. He catches it in one hand before it can clip him on the forehead. Too bad.

Rolling down the window, he throws it to the side of the road where it shatters, joining a bevy of N109 Zone detritus.

“Then I see no issue, kitten. Just hope you can run in those heels.”

Motherfucker.

“This isn’t what I agreed to,” you fume.

“Isn’t it? I paid for the pleasure of your company for one calendar year. And, considering you greeted me with a gun to the face, I think this seems perfectly in line with your special skills.”

You can only shake your head in response.

“Relax,” he intones, “you can handle it.”

The car slows in front of a large brick building. It must have once been a fortress with its dramatic portcullis and draw bridge, but now seems to have been converted to a stately home. Your client parks the car and throws a key to the valet as another uniformed man opens your door. His eyes slide up and down your figure as he helps out of the car and your client comes around.

“Mr. Sylus!”

The valet assisting you looks horrified and immediately steps away.

So, that was his name. Something to research later. 

The client – Sylus – huffs and shrugs off his blazer. 

“Wear this.” He hands it to you.

“Why?” You ask.

“Dress code.” 

“...”

The blazer is huge and barely stays on your shoulders even with all the buttons closed down the front. It's imbued with his scent to the point where you can only guess he soaks his clothes in cologne. 

Cedar, smoke, musk and… was that gun powder?

He offers his arm but you walk beside him without acknowledging it.

At least the structured lapels stop your nipples from poking through the fine fabric. It must look ridiculous. You are swimming in fabric and it practically swallows the length of your dress while still showing a good bit of chest. 

People were going to think you were naked underneath it.

Pulling it tighter than it can button, you cross your arms to keep the wool garment in position.

“How tall are you?” You ask. 

“Tall enough to dwarf you even in those ridiculous ankle breakers.” 

He gestures down to your unstable shoes as you struggle with the gravel drive leading up to the entrance.

“Don’t wear those again.”

Your bottom lip juts out on its own.

“Tell the agency.” 

“I will.” He promises. 

When you stumble slightly, his hand shoots out and grips your arm hard. 

“Ow!” You complain.

“If you’d just accepted my arm, we wouldn’t be in this position.” He scolds.

Hmmph.

“So. Is this your evil lair?”

“My… lair?” He tastes the word, “no, I’m afraid you haven’t quite earned that privilege yet.”

Scowling, you pause to look up at him but he only smiles. 

As if you were the less trustworthy half of this pair! 

The very gall of him.

“You know, this is all really inconvenient for me.”

“I’m sure.”

“I have a life. I’m not some dog at your beck and call.”

“For the next year, you are.”

“I’m not.”

“Deny it all you want.”

The urge to stomp your feet crawls up but you manage to restrain yourself.

“Unfortunately, I’m not your host tonight. I’d planned to go with the bodyguard role for you but given your… costume change… we will have to go with ‘date’ tonight. I apologize for the inconvenience.”  

His tone is acidic and the uniformed man ahead of you waits to speak, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he was witness to.

“Sir. Erm. Madame.” The butler at the front door greets both of you.

“Mademoiselle.” Sylus corrects him with a glint of teeth.

“Mademoiselle. May I take your coat?” He asks, addressing you directly. 

You notice his eyes slide discreetly to your left hand, bare of any rings.

“No.” Sylus answers for you. On this, at least, you were aligned. Removing your arm from Sylus’ you step past the butler and into the grand foyer. Formally dressed couples swan around the grand space, dimly lit by chandeliers with real candles burning in crystal. Waiters in black pass around trays of champagne and you grab one when it's offered.

“Do you have a drinking problem?” He asks as you tip it back and swallow the contents in one gulp.

“Only when I'm with you. What’s the objective tonight?” 

“That’s on a need to know basis.”

“You are so annoying.”

“I won’t deny it.”

“Mr. Sylus! Won’t you introduce us to your beautiful date this evening?”

A greasy looking man walks into view with his hand outstretched. Glancing at your ‘date’ you await instruction but he only looks at the man across from you. For a split second it seems like Sylus will say no.

“She can introduce herself.” He answers after a moment’s hesitation. You shake the man’s hand and tell him a made up name. Better to be safe.

His grip is far too firm for a friendly ‘hello’ and you have to flex it to regain the feeling after he pulls away.

“Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Sylus. I hope we can do more business together in the near future.”

“As do I.”

“Please, enjoy the party. We’ll talk more later.”

The man winks at you and scampers off.

“Our host. We are in his ‘lair’ as you called it.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Hardly.”

“So… now will you tell me what we’re doing here?”

“Enjoying a nice party.”

Your eyes narrow but you remain silent at his side.

A gong resounds, low pitched and loud. Looking up, you see the same butler from before holding a mallet. As the gong reverberates, all eyes turn to him and he announces,“dinner is served.” 

“To answer your question. I’m here to retrieve something. You’re here as a distraction. Shall we go through?”

He gestures to the throng of couples shuffling forward, handing off half-empty flutes to waitstaff. 

Dinner is a dull affair.

Sylus is seated across from you, assigned by a small paper placard with his name engraved on it. Yours reads ‘Guest Qin.’ Another clue.

What exactly had his plan been? 

You feel horribly underdressed in your lingerie blazer combination. 

To your right and left are two older gentlemen who pay you no mind and each talk to their other peers, occasionally leaning past you to speak with each other. 

Topics range from trouble with port workers to trouble with government officials to trouble with their own lazy employees. 

No one asks you a single thing. 

It's a blessing in a way. 

As inconspicuously as possible, you quietly eat steak and drink wine. Your gaze slides intermittently to Sylus, waiting for him to give you some signal to spill your wine or tip over a candle but it never comes.

For his part your ‘date’ is engrossed in conversation with the men on his side of the table, only sparing you a pointed look when you allow the staff to refill your wine glass. 

Raising it to him in a silent toast you wink and drink deeply. Maybe he'd think twice before trying to use you as a distraction next time. 

After dessert, you're a bit tipsy and ready to go home to sleep. The butler pulls back your chair and you reach for Sylus’ offered arm when a voice calls out to him. 

“Cigar, old friend?” He asks. 

It's the same man as before, your host. 

“Your lovely girlfriend is welcome, too.” He nods to you but Sylus shakes his head. 

“She's sensitive to smoke. And, besides, I think she's heard enough shoptalk tonight to make her eyes cross.” 

Both men laugh heartily at your expense. Genuine annoyance flickers through you but you push it down. What did you care what scum thought of you? Like the banshee said, you were here for the money. 

The taller man turns to look down into your eyes:

“You'll be fine on your own for a bit, right kitten?”

“She'll be fine,” your host agrees, “I believe the ladies have retired to the music room. Ask anyone for directions.” 

He nods a small bow and walks off. Sylus moves to follow him but first gives you a narrow eyed look. The unspoken command is clear. Behave.

You push down the urge to stick out your tongue and waggle your fingers at him. What are you, twelve? 

If you'd known you would have to walk this much, you'd have worn your work boots tonight. Too late now. 

Slowly, you make your way out of the dining room in short steps, a nerve in your toe pinching every other step. There’s no need to ask any of the staff for directions to the music room. It’s the only one slightly ajar off the foyer: a white door with a golden lyre painted on it and a chorus of women’s laughter spilling out. 

You should follow the trail of laughter but something calls you up the staircase. A few steps later, goosebumps raise the fine hairs on your arms.

Huh? 

That’s metaflux. 

Your Hunter’s Watch is back with the driver but you can still sense the source getting closer as you ascend the staircase.

A wanderer? 

Regardless of how deserving they were, you'd sworn to protect humans everywhere from wanderers and have a duty to investigate. A quick glance around confirms you are unobserved.

Slipping the wretched shoes off, you tiptoe up the stairs and allow your instincts to guide you. The feeling gets stronger and stronger as you walk down the hallway until you approach a brown wooden door.

Gently, you place the shoes on the ground and unholster your firearm. With one hand you twist the doorknob and push it open with your shoulder, ready to fire. 

Silence. 

There's nothing and no one in the room. It looks like a handsomely appointed office with an executive desk at the center and several large paintings around the room. 

One of the paintings looks familiar. Blue and red. It reminds you of the one you and Zayne had neutralized at Mr. Raymond’s house. 

The room is uncomfortably stuffy and hot. You shrug the blazer off, free at last from his overwhelming scent, and toss it onto one of the many leather lounge chairs.

When you approach the painting in question, the sense of metaflux strengthens. With a tentative hand, you reach out and resonate. The room flickers then fades, transporting you to a distant shoreline. 

A little boy sits in the waves crying but the more you try to walk towards him, the further away he seems to be. Time feels hazy as you try to make progress towards the small figure. A voice calls your name but you ignore it. A hand grabs at your upper arm but you shrug it off. 

It's only when someone says your name loudly and a strange force grips your entire body that you finally escape the painting's clutches. 

When you come back into the present, Sylus is standing in front of you. 

“How’d you find me?” 

He holds up his index finger, which has two straps hanging off of it. Right. You'd left your shoes in the hallway. His other hand has your firearm. Your grip must've slackened amidst the hallucination. 

“I can’t leave you even for a moment," he shakes his head and looks down at you, "naughty kitten.” 

Returning to your senses, you realize there's more than one source of metaflux in the room. Without responding to him, you walk barefoot to the desk and open the drawer. There's a protocore openly stashed in the drawer.

“What kind of honeypot trap is this?” You ask. 

Sylus looks like he's about to comment on your choice of words until his brow furrows. Stepping around to join you on the other side of the desk, he says, “someone's coming.”

Your hand freezes its pilfering and you concentrate on listening. 

Glancing at the closed door you shake your head. 

“I don't hear anything.”

Sylus leans back against the desk, watching your expression as you focus. 

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” he shrugs. 

You're sure he's messing with you until the door knob begins to jiggle. Your wide eyes meet his narrow ones.

The door clicks open and without thinking you launch yourself at him. It's only possible because he's practically sitting on the desk bringing him closer to eye level. 

Out of instinct your arms wrap around him. Or nearly, his torso is too broad for your hands to touch. 

Without either of you wearing his blazer anymore, there's only the thin layer of his cotton dress shirt between you. The heat coming off of him should be impossible. Far beyond any normal temperature. It runs through his searing lips as you press yours against his.

He's still. 

Unresponsive. 

But you don't stop. 

What reason other than a clandestine tryst can explain a snooping couple? 

The alternatives are far more suspicious. 

One hand snakes into the hair at his nape and the touch spurs him into action. His mouth opens and his hands run down the backs of your thighs. He pulls your knees up to settle on either side of his hips and you moan into him without meaning to. His hands, large and rough caress your back. One slips under your dress to press your lower back into him and the other grazes your upper back.

It's not an act anymore when you grind your hips into him, abandoning all pretense. His hands come to grip your waist under the dress and he pulls off your mouth with a gasp. 

Breathing heavily, you lean your head onto his shoulder as he kisses down to your jaw and onto your throat, sucking like he saw in your mind the first time you met.

“Are you sure—” he whispers into your ear.

“Yes,” you interrupt him, breathy and desperate. 

“—that they're still there?” He finishes. 

Oh. 

Right. 

He was facing away from the door. Opening your eyes, you can confirm that whoever walked in had gotten the hint and left, though the door remained open. 

Without a single scrap of dignity, you climb off of him and pull down your dress, clearing your throat once. 

“Sorry about that. Had to make it convincing.”

“Of course.” He inclines his head, gathering up his blazer and pulling a handkerchief out of an inner pocket. He dabs it at a wet spot on the front of his pants where you’d pressed into him.

“That’s not from me.” You insist. You can’t bring yourself to look at the shameless smirk on his face. It was from you, and you both knew it.

As fast as humanly possible, you gracelessly pull on the giant jacket and strap on the stilettos.

The gong sounds once more and you look at your companion in question. 

“Carriages and coffee. Time for us to go, I think”

Stepping gingerly in the painful heels, you stumble once and find yourself suddenly scooped off the floor. 

Not in a romantic bridal carry but thrown over his shoulder like a sack of flour. 

“Hey!”

He only chuckles and walks back over to the desk, digging through various items before pulling out the encased protocore. 

“Got it.” He says, holding it to his side so you can see the prize. Smacking his side, you want to tell him to put you down but… You also don't want to walk. 

“This is humiliating.”

“You'll live.”

You try to swat his backside but can only reach his lower back. He huffs a laugh and jostles you on his shoulder to get a tighter grip. 

“No rest for the wicked.” 

By some miracle he knows the servants’ back staircase and you leave without seeing any other guests. 

Whatever reaction the valet has, he soothes them with a casual, “too much champagne.”

The valet mumbles something sympathetic and then you're being deposited back in the passenger seat where you'd begun the evening many hours prior. 

“You didn't have to do that.”  Tugging at the hem you pull it down to cover your holsters.

“I always try to keep my assets in good condition. Couldn't risk a broken ankle.”

“Is that what I am to you?”

“Somewhere between an investment and an asset. Depends on your performance.”

It takes active effort to clench your jaw and keep the words from spilling out. Selling time, affection or even sex was one thing. What entitled him to act like he could evaluate every aspect of your person? 

“Did I pass?” You finally retort.

“Barely.” 

“Who are you?”

“You know my name.”

“Sylus.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you in organized crime?”

“Very good.”

“I'm serious. I can't run around breaking the law with you regardless of what you pay me.”

“Is prostitution legal in Linkon?” 

Your cheeks color. It is not. 

“Besides,” he continues, “there are no laws in the N109 Zone and, therefore, no criminals.”

"How convenient." Your flushed glare is reflected back to you from the windshield. 

“Don't worry kitten, I won't blow your cover. For now.”

“…”

“Aren't you going to demand to know where I'm taking you?”

“Why would I bait myself?” Your tone comes out petulant but he doesn't seem offended. 

It's been a long day and you can't find it in yourself to care either way.

“Close your eyes. I'll wake you when we arrive.” 

At first, you resist but then your eyelids grow heavy. You decide to rest your eyes. Just for a minute. 

Chapter Text

It's not your alarm that wakes you the next day but a relentless caller. Finally you answer just to stop the blaring.

“What?”

“Hello? I've been calling you all morning.” 

Ugh. The handler. You'd have to change her name to ‘Banshee’ in your contacts.

“Let me guess. He loved me. Keep doing exactly what I did last night.”

“No.”

“No?” 

You sit up. 

“He said you dressed inappropriately, drank too much, and tried to take advantage of him.”

“What?!”

“Watch yourself, newbie. A big fish doesn't come around often and it's even rarer that he lets himself be caught.”

She sounds like she'll hang up but a thought pops into your brain.

“Wait! How did he get into my apartment? Did you tell him where I live?”

“Of course.” 

“But I didn't agree to that.”

“You did. Should've read the fine print. That was your first mistake.”

Click. 

She hung up on you. 

Ugh. 

Replacing your phone on the bedside table, you take stock of the situation. It's past your normal wakeup time. Your phone is nearly dead.

He must've taken you home and put you to bed last night. 

The thought makes you shudder. 

His blazer is still wrapped around you and, faintly, you wonder if your sheets will smell like him now. 

“Sylus?” You call out but no one answers. 

Standing up you realize he must've removed your shoes again. You're barefoot but still in the same dress, blazer and ponytail as the night before. Your hair will be a nightmare. 

After a brief sweep of the apartment, everything seems fine. 

The door is locked. 

Deadbolted, even. 

Slightly suspicious but it must be possible with an energy Evol. The hunter’s watch and discarded uniform sit neatly folded on your kitchen counter. 

Returning to the bathroom you take in the woman staring back at you. 

Smeared mascara, frizzy hair, wearing someone else’s clothing. Puffy and swollen from drinking. 

Caleb and Gran would be ashamed. 

Guilt pricks at your skin. At least they aren't alive to see you like this. 

A scorching hot shower and fresh uniform do the heavy lifting to transform how you look but the feelings remain. 

Rolling nausea and a splitting headache keep the night at the forefront of your mind even as you swipe into the Association’s HQ and settle in at your desk. 

Despite your fears, no one in HQ points and shouts when you walk in that you were in the N109 Zone last night. 

It's a quiet day so your first order of business is to read the ‘fine print’ of your agreement. 

At first it's all above board and familiar. Standard nons- you had even in your Hunter agreement.

Non-disclosure, non-compete, non-solicit etc. etc.

But then you get to a clause you'd only skimmed before:

In the event of an annual (12 contiguous months) partnership, employee shall:

• Unless prevented by mortally ill health or total cognitive incapacity, Employee is required to devote the whole of his/her time, attention and skill to the Client and to act in the best interests of the Client at all times.

• Employee must voluntarily and immediately disclose all personal data to the Client when requested either through the Agency or directly. This includes, but is not limited to, data concerning location, health, interpersonal communications, financial and social obligations. 

• Remedies: in the event that Employee revokes or violates any part of the agreement herein, he/she shall pay a sum to the Agency and the Client up to but not exceeding ten times the gross amount paid by the Client to Employee as of the date of the infraction(s).
• Acceptance of any and all payment from the Client constitutes a whole and unmitigated agreement of able mind and body to the contract terms set herein with no modifications or alterations permitted.

Well. 

Fuck. 

There has to be a way out of this. 

A 10x penalty fine is more cash than you have any expectation to save in your entire life, let alone the next year. 

How many times have you heard that you shouldn’t sign anything before reading it? 

You knew better, of course, but the truth was that you hadn't wanted to know exactly what you were agreeing to. 

Maybe you can discover something about your client via the Association or on the dark web. Everyone has skeletons in their closet right? 

SYLUS QIN

You type it into one database after another. 

At first, there’s nothing to find. But then a highly redacted dossier finally loads.

Name: Sylus Qin

Appearance: Unknown, varies

Aliases: [REDACTED]

Associations: Onychinus

Evol(s): Energy manipulation, mind manipulation suspected

Notes: De facto Governor of the N109 Zone, leads current ruling party (Onychinus), first active approx. 2038. Early life unknown.

Brrrring! 

You’re about to silence your phone, busy reading and re-reading the little information available when you notice the caller ID: BANSHEE.

Just the woman you wanted to speak with. Before picking up you glance around to make sure no one can hear you and duck into a conference room.

“You’ve sold me to a criminal,” you greet.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sylus?”

“All our clients are 100% anonymous per our terms of service.” Her tone is ice cold.

“Seriously? He's the head of Onychinus. Maybe the most wanted man on the planet.” Your voice has a manic edge to it and you take a deep breath to help calm yourself. 

“Oh wisen up, buttercup. Did you really think you landed a gorgeous sugar daddy with no strings attached?.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You can and you will.”

“What recourse do I have?”

“None. By design. Just do as you're told and you can walk away in eleven months richer than most girls ever dream of being.”

You want to believe that this is short term but some part of you knows it isn’t true. Onychinus isn’t something people walk away from. Ever. 

Before you can explain this to her she continues:

“Try not to get in your head about it too much. You need the money, right? Just buy yourself something nice, you’ll feel better. Anyway, he booked you again for tomorrow so clear your calendar.”

There’s no point in debating it with her so instead you focus on the immediate future. 

“What should I wear? He didn't like what you sent last time.”

“He'll provide the garments when you arrive. Just make sure your hair, makeup and other hygiene is suitable. Take the time tonight for a good wax and lotion and maybe get those nails done, your cuticles look a bit rough.”

Twisting around in your seat, you can see the office’s security camera blinking. 

“How did you hack our–”

Click.

Your phone buzzes. 8:00AM. Be prepared for a long day.

Captain Jenna walks by and you realize you’ll need to take an unexpected day off.

“Uh, Captain?”

“Yes, Rookie?”

“I have to take a personal day tomorrow. Emergency Dentist appointment. Sorry!”

“Hmmph.” She nods once and walks away.

The next morning you wake up at 6:00AM and hydrate thoroughly. Your nails are still bare but otherwise you’ve followed instructions. 

Rifling through your closet, you look for a travel outfit, finally landing on a modest skirt and blouse that gives holster access and won’t leave you feeling uncomfortable in another estate environment. 

Unsure, you don flats but pack work boots just in case. Last time, he said he wanted you to be his bodyguard. 

Had he been joking? 

Who could say. 

Instead of relying on the useless bag the agency sends, you fill a bag with your daily essentials: ammo, bandages, bullet proof gear, water, snacks, chargers, and, fine, some toiletries and condoms. 

You are cleaned, vaselined and armed to the teeth. 

Ready for anything this bastard could throw at you. 

Or, so you tell yourself, on the elevator ride up to the penthouse.

This time, he’s waiting for you on the couch.

“Am I late?” You ask but he doesn’t answer. 

He stands and walks towards you pausing a few inches from you. 

Your breath hitches and you expose your throat to him out of instinct, maintaining eye contact as he looks down the bridge of his nose at you. 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

The ancient animal part of your brain wrestles with two conflicting urges: the first to yield in submission and the second to stand your ground and fight. 

Today he’s in a burgundy dress shirt and black pants, both perfectly fitted to his broad shoulders and trim waist. His breath is cool and minty as he leans towards you and submission wins out.

Your eyes flutter closed, your chin tilts upwards.

Excess saliva pools under your tongue and your throat bobs to swallow it back. 

The kiss doesn’t come when you expect it and instead a hand grazes the side of your right thigh, trailing up your bare skin. 

Involuntarily, a shiver runs down your spine. Until he grasps the grip of your firearm and pulls it out of the holster. 

Your eyes blink open and you ask, “how did you–?”

He doesn’t answer how he knew you had a gun on your right thigh. 

Instead he inspects it in one hand and hands you a shopping bag with the other.

“Go change.”

With only a slight grimace, you take the bag and head into the primary suite. You don’t stop him when he follows you but do give him an irritated glance before schooling your expression into indifference. 

You need to be more careful around him. He is the head of Onychinus and you have bound yourself to him. 

It is a fine line to walk until you figure out how to get out of this contract. 

He sits on the bed and you lock the bathroom door behind you. 

There’s another bag on the bed and it makes your stomach twist to wonder what might be in it. 

Inside the bag is a mess of leather. When you unfold it, there are three items: knee high boots, pants or, maybe leggings, and a strapless bustier-corset type top. 

It’s not clear whether the lotion on your legs is making this process easier or harder when you have to jump to pull them up all the way. 

The pants barely button around your hips, squeezing you tightly even when zipped.

The top is slightly easier, though you have to use the two mirrors in the bathroom to close the hooks at your back. 

Blessedly the boots have a very moderate block heel and zip on the inside. 

But when you step back to look in the full-length mirror you burst out laughing.

Pushing the door open, you see Sylus leaning back on the bed, he glances up at you but doesn’t react.

“Seriously?” You ask, “I look like a vampire hunter. Is this your thing? What do they call it… a ‘leather daddy’?”

This time, he snorts as well and tosses you a matching jacket.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We need to ride to our destination and I’d prefer that you weren’t smeared all over the highway on the way.”

“We’re not staying here?”

He’s disassembled your gun and is turning the parts over. 

“Give that back.” You demand.

“No.” 

His voice is calm and his eyes stay trained on your dismantled firearm. 

Your heart lurches at the refusal until he tosses you something from his spare bag.

“The ones your Association issues are terrible. This will suit you far better.”

On instinct, you catch the sleek, black pistol.

“A Wilson Combat Tactical Supergrade,” you identify, “very nice.” 

There is no denying this type of firearm is far beyond anything Linkon government officials budgeted for.

Ensuring the safety is still on, you test out its heft and find it perfectly balanced and molded to your grip.

“I’m impressed,” Sylus answers, “I didn’t know you had an interest in guns.”

“It’s common knowledge,” you shrug, “but how did you get one fitted to my hand?”

“Just lucky. Still, best not to wear it in plain sight until we’re out of Linkon.”

“Right.” 

You hand it back and he conceals it somewhere on his person. You don’t mention the small engraved initial on the grip that matches yours. Lucky indeed.

“Let’s go.”

“I would’ve brought my own bike.” You state bluntly, staring at the singular motorcycle parked outside the hotel.

“But you didn’t.” Sylus taps the helmet on your head and gestures for you to get on. He swings his leg over and, unwilling to be forced again by his Evol you follow, keeping your hands stubbornly atop your own thighs.

“I know you’re smarter than that, sweetie.” He grabs your wrists with both of his hands, wrapping them around his torso and tucking them under his jacket. 

His skin is unbearably hot and you have to wonder what kind of disease he has to produce this effect. 

You try to think about anything other than the dips and planes of his washboard abs as they flex under your hands when he kicks the bike into gear. 

It’s a partially successful exercise in thought control. 

Until he hits a sudden brake three minutes later and the momentum presses your front flush against him.

The drive to the N109 Zone is shorter on a motorcycle, especially with Sylus’... unique driving style. He weaves through traffic, dodges obstacles (barely) and pushes the bike to its absolute limit. You’re no stranger to high octane driving but after two near misses you have to squeeze your eyes shut and clutch him tightly, pressing the side of your helmet into his back. 

You ignore the vibrations that emanate from his back when you tense around him, startled by flying debris. 

When the bike comes to a full and complete stop, you peel off of him and shake out your limbs to dismount the bike.

“I’m driving next time.” You declare.

Under his helmet, you’re sure his eyebrows are raised but luckily you can’t see the expression. 

Tossing your helmet into the stowage, you evaluate your surroundings. 

Another bleak N109 Zone streetscape: misty shadows, broken glass and an impenetrable looking building. It’s windowless, just an endless smooth wall of reinforced material. A fortress of a different color.

“Durasteel.” You identify, walking up to touch your fingertips to the unusual material.

“Hmm. Yes, capable of absorbing military grade attacks.” He confirms.

“So. Am I here as your bodyguard, date or companion today?”

“Why not all three?” His smile is all teeth.

He steps up to an unmarked panel and presses his palm over it. A light beams out of the wall and scans his iris before flashing green. The outline of a door appears on the durasteel, hissing mechanically before sliding open. He gestures for you to step in and, with only a brief moment of hesitation, you step past him. 

It’s painfully bright inside and your pupils contract harshly moving from the N109 Zone’s perpetual night into a shocking blue-white brightness. 

Just past the external entrance is another locked door, trapping you in a small breezeway. The air begins to thin and pressure builds until Sylus walks forward, says his name once and presses his palm again to the door.

With another mechanical hiss, the door slides apart, left and right sides disappearing into the wall and unveiling a long, enclosed hallway. 

The floor under you clanks as your heavy boots stomp over metal grating. Looking for clues as to your location and purpose, you take note of the smooth, colorless walls free from any decoration or distinct markings.

It feels less like a building for humans and more like you’re being processed inside of a machine. 

Unconsciously your hand comes to rest on your firearm grip but Sylus picks your elbow up and pulls your hand away with a shake of his head.

“Don’t be rude, kitten.” His tone is casual but commanding.

Before you can respond, a petite and oddly captivating woman walks around the corner. Her dark hair is twisted into an elegant bun at the crown of her head and her striking blue eyes take the pair of you in with a detached professionalism.

“Mr. Qin, we’ve been expecting you and your guest. Please follow me.”

He inclines his head and steps forward. Falling in line, you walk slightly behind him trying to keep up with his long strides. 

The woman deposits you into an equally barren, windowless conference room. 

“His last appointment is running late, but he’ll be with you as soon as he can.”

Sylus inclines his head in gracious understanding. Despite your misgivings, the woman looks unperturbed and leaves you to wait.

The same mechanical sliding door locks into place after she leaves with the now familiar clanking hiss. But then the lock twists further with three clank-clunks. 

“We’re locked in.” You half-state, half-guess.

“Hmm.” 

“You don’t care?”

“I’m not surprised. Besides, I have no intention of waiting.”

“Why am I here?”

“You’d have made me come alone?” He asks, right eye glowing. You look away and he sighs.

“I can't believe I shaved my entire body for this.” You mutter under your breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Suddenly a strange smoke begins to filter through the vents and he raises a hand, sweeping it towards each corner. His black and red mist encircles four security cameras and crushes them to dust.

An alarm begins blaring and the blue-white light strips running along the ceiling and floor begin flashing red.

“You led us into a trap. Now what?”

“Your turn.” He gestures towards the interlocking door. 

“Can’t you open it?” You ask.

“It’s resonance locked. Your Anhausen Evol should work. Just focus on aligning the metaflux inside the door.”

Stepping up to the smooth door, you press your palm to the surface and pulse out your Evol. 

An image of a circular maze-like structure with multiple strands of metaflux appears in your mind’s eye. 

You attempt to control it but falter when Sylus steps close behind you.

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and start over but it’s challenging when you can, quite literally, feel him breathing down your neck. 

Tossing a brief glare over your shoulder, you gesture with your hand for him to move back a couple steps.

“Do you mind?” You should modulate your tone better but can’t help it.

“Distracted?” He asks.

“No.”

“Why lie?”

You don’t answer. You don’t quite know the answer.

“It’s okay,” his honeyed voice reassures and mocks all at once, “I already know the effects my devastating good looks have on you.”

“You're not my type.” It’s the only defense that comes to mind.

“I can think of some evidence to the contrary.”

Hmmph. 

“I was drunk. Any man with a pulse would've been the same to me.”

“Really?” 

He’s stepped closer into your physical space and when you open your eyes, he’s practically nose to nose with you.

His right eye emits a faint glow and you have to stare determinedly in the other direction

“That’s cheating.” You complain, but his eye only glows brighter and he tries to catch your gaze.

“I never promised to fight fair.” 

You don't answer. 

“So kitten, would any man really do? You must have quite the appetite.”

“...”

“Were you disappointed when I left you alone in the hotel room?”

“It’s almost like you want me to fail,” you accuse aloud. 

But then the lock clicks, 

“Got it.” 

You stand triumphantly and the door springs open. 

Finally.

He looks like he’s about to continue his relentless teasing until a bullet zings past your cheek. 

There’s an elbow poking out just around the far corner at the end of the hallway. 

Sloppy. 

Without thinking, the pistol is gripped in two hands and, as soon as the shooter peeks around, your bullet has already passed through the other side of his skull.

Spinning the gun in your hand, you can’t help but be pleased with its performance. The accuracy and power delivered a strong result with very little recoil.

“Not bad.” Sylus comments. 

He’s drawn his own firearm and the two of you advance. Since you still don’t know why you’re here, you let him take point. 

The pair of you encounter three more men dressed in tactical armour and dispatch them easily enough. It's self defense, you remind yourself. 

But guilt eats at you as you step over human bodies. This is against the Hunter’s code. 

Your torn conscience manifests in a short temper when Sylus starts to give you unsolicited technique criticism.

“You’re leaning forward too much when you aim. You’d be more accurate if–”

“-don’t you have henchmen for this?” You interrupt. 

“Whatever could you mean?” His eyes look as innocent as can be when he glances back at you.

“... I know who you are.”

“Researching me? How flattering. I thought your clients were supposed to be anonymous?”

“You're one to talk. You knew I was a hunter from day one.”

“It was obvious. No abuse of official clearance required to deduce that, my sweet little hunter.”

“Obvious how?”

“It’s the way you hold a gun. Pressing your shoulders down like you’re about to launch into a waltz. Relax. Don’t hold your breath when you pull the trigger.”

A scoff escapes you but you actively release your tensed shoulders the next time you raise your muzzle.

“Are you getting satisfaction from forcing me to violate the Association’s code?”

“No.” He sounds sincere but it's hard to believe. 

This must be what his interest in you is all about. 

Some kind of political leverage. 

Anger, disgust and embarrassment stew in your gut as you turn over the possible ulterior motives. 

Eventually, the two of you come face to face with another resonance-locked door and you make quicker work of it this time. 

Sylus mercifully stays silent with his back to you, covering you while you work to open it.

When the door clicks open, he walks immediately to a floor-to-ceiling locked safe, rips the door open and retrieves a small package from inside the freezing cold interior.

“Is that a–”

“Hightower? Three actually.” He answers.

“You want to transport weapons of mass destruction on the back of a motorcycle?”

It should be a question but comes out as an accusation.

His silence is answer enough. 

He walks past you back into the hallway and you make your way towards the exit, jogging lightly to keep up with his long strides.

“You are insane.” 

Your breath is slightly ragged from exertion but he doesn’t acknowledge you, just rips off the last door with his Evol and mounts the waiting bike.

“Coming?” He asks, tossing a helmet to you.

For a split second, you consider finding your own way home but then a bullet pings off the metal of his bike. Swinging your leg over the seat, you point and aim with one hand and shoot back at the building even as he drives away.

Every shot misses but, luckily, so do your opponents’. 

Certain you’re out of range, you reholster your weapon and slump against Sylus’ back. 

But you’re wrong and an unexpected bullet flies towards you. 

At the last moment, he yanks the handlebars and accelerates the bike forcing it nearly parallel with the ground. 

It misses your head but you hear him grunt when it catches the outside of his arm.

Your first instinct is to apply pressure but he raises his voice loud enough for you to hear over the roar of the engine. 

“Get ready.”

Twisting on the bike you see them: two bikes flanking you and Sylus. 

Pulling a hand from his wound, you turn and fire single-handed. 

Sylus’ mist holds you in place and, even with a few wide shots, you manage to shoot out the closer driver’s front tire and they skid into oblivion. 

It dawns in the back of your mind that if the second shooter hits you and Sylus, the Hightower explosives will decimate the entire N109 Zone. 

Your hand shakes and you use your second to steady it, aim and fire. It's risky on a moving bike. You have no choice but to trust Sylus’ Evol to keep you on the bike. The second shot rings true and takes out your pursuer.

You try again to hold pressure on Sylus' wound but he shrugs you off. 

In what feels like minutes, the bike pulls up outside a towering black building. Sylus stumbles off the bike and in through the front doors. 

Pausing a moment, you consider the options at hand but then a drop of blood on the leather seat catches your eye. Looking down at your hands, his blood has begun to crust into lines on your palms. 

Had he really taken a bullet in your place? 

It can't have been on purpose. Still. 

Honor propels your legs into a walk, then jog, then sprint after him into the building. Just to find an empty hallway and locked doors lining it. 

“Sylus?” 

Could he have passed out? 

Why had you hesitated? 

He was probably bleeding out somewhere in this unfamiliar building and it was all your fault. 

“Sylus?” Your voice is louder but he doesn't reply. “Sylus!” It's a yell, as loud as you can manage. 

And then, he's walking around the corner accompanied by an old man with a medical kit. 

“Worried?” He asks, calm as ever. 

“No.” 

The two men are walking quickly and you struggle to keep pace with them as they get into the elevator. The elder man holds gauze to the wound and is evaluating Sylus. 

“I'm Dr. Smith. It's nice to meet you.” He offers without looking up. You reciprocate mindlessly and follow them into a clean, clinical room. 

Methodically, Dr. Smith cuts away the garments on Sylus’ arm and pulls out each piece of shrapnel with a pair of forceps. Sylus doesn't flinch as the doctor digs around but watches your face as you witness skin knitting itself back together and blood evaporating into smoke.

“How?”

Neither man answers you. When the doctor is done, Sylus stands and nods towards you, “check her out too. Protocore syndrome. Thanks doc.”

With that he walks to the doorway but pauses on the threshold when you call his name. 

“Yes?” He asks without turning around. 

“I guess I should thank you.”

“No need.” He answers without emotion and it plucks something painful inside of you. 

“Just protecting your investment?” It sounds bitter.

“Something like that.” 

He disappears into the dark hallway. 

Much to your own frustration, tears sting your eyes. 

“You okay, kid?”

The doctor. You'd forgotten he was there. 

With a nod, you follow his instructions and sit on the examination table, letting him take your vitals. 

Heavy boots sound in the hallway ten minutes later and your heart swells. 

But it's not him. 

A different man in a birdlike mask appears. 

“Bossman said you needed a ride.” 

Chapter Text

One day passes, then another and another and then it's Friday night with no news from him for over ten days. You’ve tried texting just to immediately receive Undeliverable in response. You call the number but it doesn’t go through. 

Desperate, you call the agency handler.

“Weren't you just complaining that this was interfering with your so-called job?” 

The disdain in her voice is palpable even over the phone. 

“Can you help me or not?”

“Not.” 

“...”

“All our clients are 100% anonymous. I’m not sure how many different ways I can say it to you.”

Click.

You try to sleep but can’t. 

His face haunts your every thought. 

What did he want from you? Why hadn’t he reached out? What was he doing right now? 

Had his mission been to corrupt your soul and now, successful, he was leaving you to the torture of your own thoughts?

Finally the tossing and turning gets to you and you abandon your twisted, sweaty sheets to get dressed. 

Thirty minutes later you’re speeding past Linkon’s city limits, ignoring the warning signs about imminent danger ahead. 

Gunshots ring out around you but you pay them no mind. Your mind conjures all manner of things you’ll say to him. He’ll open the door and you’ll set him straight. Give him a piece of your mind. 

That’s how you find yourself riled up, red faced and rapping your knuckles at the front door of the Onychinus base at 2:00AM on a Saturday morning. 

The door clicks open on your third knock and you’re about to launch into a tirade when a beaked mask pokes around the doorframe.

“Miss Hunter?”

Oh. 

It’s the man who’d driven you back to Linkon.

“Where is he?”

“Bossman? He’s out. Do you need help getting home?”

“No.”

“Okay. Can I… take a message?” 

He seems to be at a loss.

“No.”

His head tilts in what you can only imagine is a question.

The anger that had fueled you dissipates and it feels like the taut sails of purpose have been cut slack.

“I–” You hadn’t expected this potential outcome and have to think for a moment before asking, “can I wait for him?”

“Sure.”

He deposits you in a room off of the main hall. Sylus’ personal study.

You can’t help but examine the records that line the walls and run your fingers over the hardcopy books in the built-ins. 

The vinyls and literature titles are varied: classics, contemporary, esoteric and some even bordering on whimsical. 

It’s very challenging to fold this new information into your perception of the man. 

How infuriating. 

By 3:00AM, the righteous anger fueling you is beaten out by exhaustion. Traipsing over to the deep sofa, you lie down. There’s a cashmere-soft throw folded on the arm and you wrap it around yourself. 

Cedar, smoke, musk, gunpowder. You inhale deeply and the knot in your stomach loosens. 

“Sylus?” Something in the back of your mind alerts you to his presence.

“Hmm?” He stays seated and you shoot upright. Not again. 

Damn your ability to fall asleep anywhere. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks as you take in your surroundings.

The earlier righteous tirade you prepared dies at your lips.

“I…” you hesitate, unsure where to start, “you didn’t call.”

“Were you worried about me?” His tone is slightly sarcastic 

“Hmmph.”

“Maybe you were worried about your penalty fee.” He quirks an eyebrow.

“No. I’m not the one in violation of any terms.”

“Oh,” he leans forward in the chair towards you, his eyes searching, “and I am?”

“I, well, I suppose not. There’s nothing in the contract about the client acting on the agreement.”

“Then did you come here to enforce our… professional relationship?”

A blush creeps up your neck and your brain scrambles for an excuse.

Your eyes land on the supergrade pistol on the table beside you.

“I came to return this gun. As you pointed out, it’s a very valuable weapon.”

“I see. Then let’s return it to the armory.”

He stands, letting you pick up the gun to follow him. His pace is fast and it’s a struggle to keep up.

“Did I offend you?” It slips out before you mean it to. 

What did you care if he was angry with you? It should be a good thing to escape his clutches.

“No.” 

It’s short and simple but unsatisfying. He doesn’t stop walking.

“Did you target me because I’m a hunter?”

This stops him. He turns around and evaluates your expression, looking between your eyes for something. 

“It’s only been a few days. I thought you’d be grateful for the reprieve. After all, you did say I was forcing you to act against your own values.”

“Wasn’t that the point?”

“No.”

“Are you using me for political purposes?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me what you are using me for?”

He turns on his heels and continues walking. 

You follow him into the elevator and he hits a button before answering.

“You are a unique individual with a set of skills that is useful to me. Is that explanation enough?”

“So it's my ability to detect metaflux?”

“In part, yes.”

The door pings open and you follow him into the hallway. It’s only because he’s facing away that you have the courage to ask the next question.

“So… this isn’t about sex at all?”

“Careful, kitten. You sound disappointed.” 

His voice is teasing but you’re determined to get to the bottom of the arrangement dictating the next ten months of your life. Still your throat constricts a bit and you aren’t able to deflect it before he continues.

“Did you want to audition for other men who consider consent negotiable?” He asks but you continue without answering his question. 

No. 

Of course you didn’t want that. 

But why would he care?

“Plenty of hunters can detect metaflux. You could even teach a henchman to use a hunter’s watch. Plenty of tenebrae would sell you one.”

“Maybe. But no one suspects the beautiful drunk woman at the party of stealing.”

This grates your nerves and you look away, folding your arms. The flush on your cheeks deepens and spreads over your neck and chest.

He glances back at you and smiles gently.

“It's a strength to be underestimated. Learn to use it to your advantage.”

Before you can wonder what he means, you realize you’ve arrived at your destination in the Onychinus base. The armory. 

It’s a reinforced door with a digital keypad. 

He gestures for you to open it, but it’s locked.

“Two-zero-two-four,” He instructs and you punch it in. The door beeps and swings open.

“That’s easy to remember,” you grin, “it’s the year I was born.”

“Is it, really?” he asks, “what a coincidence.” 

Your mouth drops open as the lights blink on, revealing less of an armory and more of a museum.

Rifles, pistols, semi-automatic, machine guns, missile launchers and grenades catch your eye on the left side of the room. But on the right, is an homage to the art of welding. Ornate daggers, engraved swords, scythes, throwing stars, twin katanas, ivory handled claymores and ceremonial blades glitter under the bright lights.

“Pick out whatever you’d like.”

“Really?”

“What kind of sugar daddy would I be if I didn’t spoil you now and again?”

Torn between beaming and rolling your eyes, you land on beaming.

“You look like a child in a candy shop.”

And you feel like one too, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“If I'd known the effect this would have on you I'd have brought you here on our first date.”

This earns a derisive laugh before you can stop it.

“Date? I'm not sure I’d classify anything we’ve done so far as a ‘date.’”

“Then maybe we should fix that.”

“Ha. Ha.”

You’re too enthralled to mind his jabs as you pull the latest firearm technology off the wall, turning it over in your hands. Protocore powered weaponry. Incredible.

It’s more advanced than anything you’ve seen even in virtual training. He chuckles at your enthusiasm.

You leave the armory with the supergrade pistol, a set of throwing stars, a discreet dagger and one protocore powered sniper rifle. Sylus is surprisingly knowledgeable and you drink in every detail he tells you about the various items.

The bubbly feeling inside of you is barely dampened by the exhaustion creeping into your bones.

“You look exhausted, do you want a ride home or do you want to take a nap first?”

Didn’t he want to spend any time with you?

“I’m fine. I’ll ride my bike home.”

“Your tires were bald and the clutch cable worn out. I’m having someone fix it. It’ll be dropped off at your building tomorrow. Luke can drive you home.”

For some unknown reason you want to stomp your foot. 

Without realizing it your brow furrows and your lips pout.

“And where are you going?”

“To check on my other investments.”

Your stomach drops. 

How could you be so naive? Of course you weren’t his only ‘sugar baby.’ 

A man of this level of resources almost certainly had as many women as he could possibly want eating out of his hands.

Spinning on your heels, you can’t stop yourself from storming out and slamming the front door behind you to wait for Luke. 

No wonder he hadn’t even tried to sleep with you. 

He probably had dozens of ‘investments.’

The door creaks behind you when he comes to sit next to you on the steps.

“Why are you upset?”

Your arms cross and eyes fix on a point in the distance.

“I’m not.”

“They get restless if I don’t give them enough attention.”

“I’m sure.”

“Hmm. They’re high maintenance, but worth it.”

When you refuse to look at him he continues.

“Jealous?” He asks softly. 

Silence.

“You’re welcome to join us.” He adds.

This gets you to turn towards him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Don’t know how to ride? I can teach you.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Allergic to manure?” He teases, “it’s good not to rely on technology for everything. Riding is a life skill.”

“...What?”

He laughs under his breath.

“What did you think I was talking about?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish as you try to process the conversation you’ve just had.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a 1,200 pound redhead.”

“You could’ve led with horses.”

“I could have. But then I’d never have known you care.”

A blush creeps its way up your neck. He laughs, not unkindly, and stands.

“Come on, kitten. You can sleep on the way there.”

Sylus asks you to wait for him in the car while he gets ready for the ranch. After a good fifteen minutes, he returns with a couple of duffel bags and the same throw you’d fallen asleep underneath earlier that morning. 

Without a word, he sits in the driver’s seat and wraps it around you. You drift off and awaken when he parks the car in a dusty dirt driveway. Pink climbing roses crawl over a natural stone facade aged slightly with a pitched red-tile roof. The white paint on the window shutters is starting to chip away but it only adds to its beauty.

“Charming.” 

“Thank you.”

“Yours?”

“Hmm.”

A kind looking butler exits the house and greets Sylus speaking to him about the pleasure of his unexpected visit and helping him with the luggage. 

They hurry to help you out of the car – but are too late. You’re already halfway down the drive, walking towards the white fences. They encircle a large pasture and neighbor a round track. Wandering in the green fields, you count at least six horses eating and resting under trees.

It’s strange to turn and see Sylus under a bright blue sky. 

He looks lighter, somehow, without the oppressive mist of the N109 Zone pressing down on him.

The butler has reentered the house and Sylus catches you staring.

“What?” He asks. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he almost sounds embarrassed. Like he’s worried there’s a stain on his shirt.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, but can’t stop the smile that’s making him suspicious of you.

“Tell me.” 

He’s walking down the dirt drive towards you and the smile on your face grows bigger and bigger until he can see all of your teeth.

A mirroring smile grows on his own features. 

You break eye contact even though his right eye doesn’t activate.

He’s reached you in a few long strides and leans on the fence next to you. His features look softer, more relaxed surrounded by green grass and blossoming vines. He leans down and narrows his eyes at you. 

It would be unbearable if it wasn’t so captivating. 

A sudden breeze ruffles his hair and your hand reaches up to fix it but you pause halfway and let your arm fall.

“Nothing,” you repeat, shrugging, “it’s just… you’re different here. It suits you.”

It’s colder in the country and you tug the blanket tighter around you. 

His eyes narrow further and he considers your face before answering.

“Let’s get you into something warmer. You’re not in the city anymore.”

Definitely a leg guy, you think to yourself taking in your new riding boots, tight jodhpurs and white compression top. The full kit, including a black blazer, velvet helmet and riding crop, had been laid out neatly when the butler showed you to the room. 

Your room, apparently. 

Everything is perfectly tailored to your measurements. Even the helmet.

Now, ten minutes later, you look yourself up and down in the full-length mirror. It is a completely different context but holds several parallels to your ‘vampire hunter’ leather outfit he’d put you in almost two weeks prior. 

Sylus had offered to braid your hair, but you take the task on yourself. It seems very unlikely that the head of Onychinus knows how to detangle and French braid long hair. Then again, he surprises you every time. 

Satisfied with your appearance, you grab the accessories and head back to the grand foyer. Everything with Sylus is grand, ornate. So many unnecessary aesthetics.

“Ready?”

He’s dressed similarly to you but his (very tight) pants are white and his jacket, navy blue. The riding boots are fitted perfectly to his shapely calves and you make a conscious effort not to stare until he turns away from you, leading the way down to the stables. 

Following down the dusty path, you let your eyes wander over the corded muscles barely concealed. 

At the base of the hill there’s a reddish, wooden post-and-beam style barn. He slides the large doors open with ease and you’re hit with a familiar scent. Cedar.

Inside are at least a dozen well kept stables, mucked out with fresh hay. 

One by one, Sylus greets creatures and they nuzzle into his hands and arms. 

It’s sweet and strange to see him be so gentle. The smile on his face has no trace of mockery or sorrow. He notices you staring and holds up his hand.

“Treats.” He explains and offers you a basket of your own to bribe the creatures. 

There’s a grumpy black beauty in the far corner and you go to his stall, offering a whole carrot to coax him from the corner. He’s stubborn, but you're able to pique his interest by cutting open an apple. He comes over and eats it in one bite. 

You giggle at the feeling of his rough tongue despite yourself and wipe the mess on your pants. 

The horse glares at you but allows you to pat the side of his mane lightly. 

“Like calls to like.” Sylus walks up behind you, “he’s stubborn. Like you. I have a pony that I think might be better suited.”

“I like this one.” You don’t turn around.

“I’m not surprised. He’s a pure black Akhal-Teke. Beautiful, isn’t he? Still, I’ve had to pay for three medical bills from trainers who failed to tame him.”

“Maybe I’ll be the one to tame him.”

“It’s your choice. I’m happy to pay the medical bill a fourth time.”

“What about your investment?”

“High risk, high reward.”

“And what’s my reward if I’m able to ride him?”

“Isn’t such an accomplishment a reward in and of itself?”

“You’re a bit stingy for a sugar daddy.”

“Am I?” His eyes are shining, but not with Evol, “name your prize then.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He quirks an eyebrow.

“Fine. If I can ride him, you’ll have to call me… your queen.”

“If you can ride him one hundred meters, I will.”

Speaking softly, you approach the horse from his shoulder and take a firm but gentle hold of the lead. 

He follows you to the tacking area and lets you slide on the saddle and bridle easily. Quiet praise falls from your lips as you give him a quick brush to make a point to Sylus. 

Man and horse follow your lead out to the track where Sylus opens the gate.

“One full one hundred meter loop and you win.”

He clearly doesn’t believe you can do this. But you have the secret weapon of several apple slices stuffed into your jacket.

You hold eye contact with his garnet stare as you mount the horse. Sylus leans against the fence and folds his arms over his chest kicking one foot over the other. 

If only he had a piece of hay in between his teeth, he’d look every bit the cowboy.

Grinning, you urge the horse into a trot but the animal keeps the pace at a stubbornly slow walk. 

Fine, you can work with this. 

The pair of you get about halfway through the loop before he gets distracted and walks towards the center of the track, jumping the inner fence. With a squeak, you hold on through the unexpected leap.

“Give up?” Sylus shouts from across the track.

“Never!” 

Dismounting the horse, you walk back to the ‘start’ line and brandish your secret weapon.

“You’ll spoil him like that. You need to show some spirit to tame a wild horse.” Sylus clucks his tongue.

“I think a little sugar might do the trick.”

Holding out more apple slices, the horse gobbles them up and inclines his head allowing you to mount him again.

“With treats coming so easily, I think this horse is becoming more and more spoiled under your care.” Sylus critiques, holding the lead and looking up at you on the horse.

The horse whinnies underneath you and shakes his head, throwing off Sylus’ hand.

“There, there, my sweet. Don’t listen to him. I know you’re a good boy.”

Sylus steps aside and sighs heavily, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Pandering to him will only cost you. Making your enemy scared and nervous is the first step in taming.”

“Hmmph. Don’t listen to him.”

Patting the horse’s mane, you dig your heels into his ribs and he sets off on a trot down the path.

“Good boy,” you coo to the horse and turn to give Sylus a challenging grin.

“Don’t celebrate too soon.” His voice is carried by the wind as he watches the pair of you.

But victory is in sight and you lean forward eagerly.

A distant whistle calls in the background and the horse slows.

“No! Don’t listen to him - I have more apples!”

Jostling out the treats, you try to pull the reins with one hand and tempt him with the other, but the beast won’t be dissuaded. He bucks you once when you pull the reins hard and you release them, letting the horse walk back to his owner.

“Oh, are you two back already?” Sylus is all smug victory and your eyes narrow as he holds out an arm to help you dismount.

“That’s cheating.” You accuse but accept his hand to step off the horse. It trots over to the wild apple tree and plucks its own treat off of a branch.

When you look back at Sylus, you realize he’s closer than you thought. Your chests are nearly touching and your focus narrows in on the sweat dripping down your temple. Looking away, you flex both hands to shake off the memory of his grip.

“If you want to tame something of mine, you’re just a bit short on skills.”

He’s smiling down at you, self-satisfied and superior.

Ugh.

“Asshole.” It’s muttered under your breath but you get the sense he hears it anyways.

“It’s just the way of the world. The weak submit to the strong. The tamed bow to the tamer.”

“Hmmph. Even someone like you can be tamed.”

“No one has ever associated that word with my name before.”

One day, you promise yourself, you’ll wipe that damn smirk off his face.

“So,” he takes the lead of the wild black horse and restables him, “time for you to submit to my earlier recommendation. The cost of losing.”

When he turns his back to get the pony, you stick out a tongue and make a face. 

Of course, he doesn’t notice but your defiance makes you feel a bit better.

Despite losing the bet, you have to admit it’s a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. Beyond the track, Sylus leads you on his horse through the woods on several well manicured trails. For two hours, the pair of you ride slowly in the dense forest before reaching an open field where you both coax your horses into a gallop. 

Gripping the pony tightly with your legs, you release the reins and throw your arms wide, tossing your head back and closing your eyes to indulge in the moment.

It’s the freest you’ve felt in ages and when you open your eyes, Sylus is staring at you from the edge of the field as you approach.

“What?” You ask, finally catching up to his side.

“Wanna race?” He asks.

With a laugh, you shake your head ‘no.’

“Why not?”

“You’re insufferable as it is. I’m not giving you another reason to be smug.”

“Admitting defeat already?”

“In your dreams, cowboy.”

With that, you use your palm to lightly tap the pony’s haunch and squeeze your legs discreetly to take off in a sprint, leaving Sylus in the dust.

Laughing wildly, you can hear him trying to pick up the pace behind you. Of course, your pony is no match for his adult chestnut Arabian and he quickly gains ground on you.

As you approach the other end of the field, you pull back at the last moment and Sylus only overtakes you by the barest margin.

“Isn’t that a clear and obvious instance of cheating, Miss Hunter?” 

“I never promised a fair fight.” You quote him back to himself.

You’re both grinning, sweaty and exhausted. The ride back to the stable is not unpleasant, you realize. It’s quiet until he shares a bit about the land you’re on.

“Beech, oak, fir…” he points out the different trees.

“How did you come to own this estate?”

“It’s a long story and not very interesting.”

He doesn’t brag, you’ve realized. Has no need to. It’s oddly refreshing and leaves you more curious. Back in silence, you take in the environment around you.

It’s one of the last gracious afternoons before the year turns cold. The grass is still green but the trees are streaked with gold. In the distance, sun-warmed bundles of hay carry a faint, sweet smell on the wind. 

The canopy of leaves is still mostly full, dappling the light around you. It’s mesmerizing to watch it play through the leaves on his silver hair – cool at first but warming as the sun drops in the sky.

“We should head back; the sun is setting earlier and earlier.”

You hum in agreement and follow him.

The horses are damp with sweat and a bit tired as their hooves crunch the leaves. 

At the edge of the woods, the manor house rises over the track and blends into the landscape around it. 

Lavender and thyme in a hidden kitchen garden add a new, herbal scent to the breeze when the wind changes direction.

Beginning to shiver, you dismount and walk alongside the pony and Sylus does the same. The warmth from exertion has faded and the damp sweat on your skin leaves you cold.

You’re struck, again, by the shift in Sylus’ demeanor inside the barn as he brushes his horse and puts him away. So careful and caring. You’d think he was the type to ride hard and put away wet.

“What?” He asks again but you can only shake your head, mimicking his routine to clean up and reward your pony. Visiting the black beauty, you give him a couple pats and reassure him that you’re still friends, despite his betrayal. 

The full extent of your exhaustion doesn’t hit you until you’re back in your room standing under the hot shower. You hadn’t ridden a horse in years and you will absolutely be sore tomorrow. Still, there’s a small smile on your face as you dry your hair and search the closet for suitable clothing.

There’s a mix of everything in your closet all in your size. 

You’re just about dressed in jeans and a sweater when a knock sounds at the door.

“Yes?”

“Mademoiselle?”

Sylus seemed to prefer people to refer to you as such. An odd quirk.

Opening the door, you see the butler and give him a warm smile.

“Did Mademoiselle enjoy the horses?”

“Yes,” you smile brightly, “thank you for everything, it was wonderful.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” he inclines his head, “Mr. Sylus has requested your presence in the library for cocktails before dinner.”

“I’ll be right there,” you reply but then lower your voice conspiratorially and whisper, “is my outfit… okay for that?”

He clears his throat, “Mademoiselle is most elegant in any attire. But, ahem, if I may, I believe you will find a rather stunning emerald green gown and burgundy ensemble hanging in the closet just there. Either would be quite suitable for this evening.”

“Thank you!” 

It’s good to have an ally for once.

“It is my pleasure, Mademoiselle.”

The green dress is gorgeous, silk and full length. Cap sleeved with a boat neck in the front, the back swoops daringly low in the back just grazing your tailbone. 

But the second dress…

You’d be a fool not to notice Sylus’ bias towards burgundy red. When you slip it on, the dress technically covers you head to toe. Long sleeves, full length skirt, a high back and a mock neck comes up to your chin. There’s two layers of fabric.

The outer layer is a diaphanous sheer silk chiffon. Where it’s shirred, the fabric almost becomes opaque but you can’t imagine many women wearing it without the liner. There’s three pairs of kitten heels in the closet but you stay barefoot.

When you turn the sleeves inside out, you find and unclip a small button at the top of each shoulder. The inner slip comes out without any fuss. 

A wicked plan forms in your mind. 

Stepping to the transparent diaphanous outer layer only, you pull on the smallest pair of panties you can find and check in the mirror. 

You could wear a bra. 

But you don’t. 

You’re stone cold sober but feel more confident than any of your past encounters with Sylus. This would be on your terms. 

Without the modesty slip, the dress has you looking like a beautiful, vengeful goddess from ancient Greece. Your hair is just long enough to cover your nipples and you pull it over your front in case you run into anyone else on the way.

When you descend the stairs, the smirk is on your lips for once.

The library door is open and Sylus is fussing over two wine glasses at the old-fashioned bar. A warm fire crackles and the wood-paneled library is lit otherwise by candelabras.

It’s only by chance that he doesn’t drop both glasses when he turns around and sees you. His lips part for a moment before he closes his jaw with an audible clack. 

Brushing your hair back over your shoulders, you know he can see every detail of your breasts, your stomach, your legs and his eyes darken. Even in the dim library’s light nearly every part of you is presented to him as you walk forwards.

When he finally speaks, it’s in warning.

“Provoking me is not a wise choice.”

You sink onto a couch by the fireplace and tuck your feet underneath you.

“I don’t know what you could mean.” You blink, innocently, then pout, “aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

He narrows his eyes at you but walks over and hands you the glass. The deep red of the liquid nearly matches your dress where it folds in your lap. Maintaining eye contact, you drink deeply from the glass.

“Thoughts?” He asks.

“A bit harsh at first, but goes down smoothly. Like someone else I know.” You smile and drink again. He’s quick to refill your glass and comes to sit by you at a respectful distance.

“What are you trying to do?” He asks, keeping his eyes fixed on your face.

“With what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Nervous?” You ask with a smile.

“Hardly.” He scoffs.

“Perhaps I’ll be the one to tame the infamous Onychinus leader, after all.”

“Really? Well then,” he leans forward, raising his glass towards you in a toast, “I’m looking forward to seeing you try.”

Just then his phone rings.

“Excuse me,” he says, “this won’t be more than a few moments. Please start dinner without me.”

Chapter Text

You’re in an unfamiliar part of the manor house. A cellar. Dark, grey, and a bit unkempt. There’s a door in front of you cracked open with a sliver of light shining through. Following the light, you push it open. The ground is unstable, there’s dust and debris crunching underneath your heeled boots.

In the pitch-black room, a single ray of sunlight falls upon a figure kneeling on the ground. Hearing footsteps, he lifts his head.

“Sylus…?”

He’s on his knees and the balls of his feet, sitting back on his heels. His hands are cuffed behind his back. He’s in a vest and button down, but it’s the accessory that catches your eye. A tight collar is buckled around his throat complete with a loop for a lead. Absently, you realize there’s a riding crop in your hand.

“You took your time. Haven’t you been waiting for this moment for so long?” He answers.

“Huh?”

“Forget already? Aren’t you the one who said she’d tame the leader of Onychinus?”

Walking over, you grab the collar by its lead and pull him in. 

So this is what he was into. 

Very well, it would be your pleasure to indulge in his wildest fantasies. 

Yanking it forward, he has no choice but to come off of his heels and put his weight fully on his knees to come up towards you.

“Such arrogance.” He scoffs. 

“You need to show some spirit to tame a wild horse.” You answer, repeating his earlier words.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Brandishing the crop, you hit it in your hand a few times.

“Scared?” You ask.

“Not at all. I’m excited and looking forward to it.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Someone told me the first step in taming is making your enemy scared and nervous.”

Trailing the crop up his chest, you let it linger between his legs, swirling around his bare chest before coming to rest over his heart.

“How do you expect me to respond to your aimless flirtation?”

Scowling, you push his chin backwards and step towards him, trying to be as menacing as you can. 

“I like the look on your face right now.” He smiles, relaxed and teasing. What would it take to intimidate this wild beast?

Lightly at first, you tap, then smack the crop against his cheek, testing your new weapon.

“Provoking me is not a wise choice.” He says and it rings a bell somewhere in the back of your mind. Hadn’t you been wearing something different?

He notices your distraction right away and taunts you.

“As a tamer, don’t be so stingy.” 

If only the agency had given you more of a primer on domination. You should’ve known this was what such a powerful man craved. 

He shakes his head in challenge and you feel up his leg with the sole of your shoe. 

It seems he needs a firmer hand. 

“In charge of everything all day long. You just want me to take charge, don’t you?” 

Tracing up his calf, his inner thigh, you let the point of your heel come to rest over the apex of his thighs, pressing lightly. Testing.

“Raise the stakes.” He challenges. Damnable man.

“You’re enjoying this too much.” You answer and pull your foot away from him. Instead you walk slowly around him.

The cuffs at his wrists look normal and you wonder if they are doing anything at all to keep him captive.

“Do you remember what you’re supposed to call me?” You ask, bringing the sole of your boot up to the center of his back.

He turns his head slightly, but doesn’t try to turn and see you.

“An angry hunter?” He asks, “... or a kitten holding a grudge?”

Hmmph. You kick hard and he falls onto his side on the ground.

“Is that all the patience you have?”

He stays down, hands bound behind him and laying partially on his right side. 

With slow, deliberate steps you tap the crop in your hands and move forwards. 

Straddling him with one knee on either side of his waist, you grab his chin and move it this way and that.

A smile crawls over your features and you relish in the power of the position over him. It’s delicious to have him at your mercy. And to enjoy looking at his gorgeous face unabashedly for once.

“So,” he drawls, “you like it when I look at you this way.”

He’s still teasing and you jerk his head to the left, forcing him to show his throat to you. It’s a reversal of the position he had you in when you last met him in the Penthouse.

“Memorizing my face?” He asks. 

Brushing your thumb along his lips, you push them up to check his teeth, pulling them over his canines, “overstepping, huh?” He asks. As if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re doing, putting him through his submissive paces.

“Hardly.”

You try to push him further into the ground, but suddenly he sits up and you’re forced backwards into his lap.

“Is that all you’ve got?” His right eye is activating, glowing brightly, “If you want to tame me you’ll need more than that.”

Your heart is racing as he retakes control of the situation. Your hands are catching on the floor behind you as he leans forwards and stares into your very soul, grinning. His eyebrows lift once and you can’t stop yourself from looking into his Aether Core eye.

“I don’t mind spending the whole night with you.”

“Sweet dreams?”

Sylus’ voice jolts you awake from your wild dream.

“You look like Flaming June bundled in that gown, asleep on the couch."

“Wha-?”

You’re blinking away sand from your eyes and realize you must’ve fallen asleep. 

“Frederic Leighton, 1895. I’m surprised you don’t know it.”

“You should’ve woken me sooner.”

“I would have, but… you looked like you were enjoying yourself,” he croons.

Bastard. He must’ve made you dream that somehow. 

“I won’t keep you. But you should eat something before you go to bed. Come.” 

After that absurd dream, you slow down on the wine, nursing the same glass for the rest of the evening. 

Maybe you did need a bit more self-discipline where alcohol was involved. 

At least around Sylus. 

Dinner passes with less tension than you would’ve expected, especially when he asks you about your life back in Linkon and what you like about being a hunter. 

“It’s important to me. The Chronorift Catastrophe changed everyone’s lives. But if it weren’t for Lumiere and the other hunters, I’d be dead.”

“I understand.”

“So… what do you like about being the leader of Onychinus?”

“It’s not so different from your answer,” he studies you over his glass, “I wanted to be the architect of my own life. To do that, I had to take on the mantle of leadership before someone else did.”

"Kill or be killed?”

“If you want to be dramatic. But... yes, sometimes survival demands decisiveness.”

“You say that like it’s noble.” It comes out harsher than you intend but he answers you openly.

“No. Just necessary. I take no pleasure in violence, no matter what you may think of me,” he shakes his head slightly, “it’s only a means to an end. And, an unfortunate one at that.” He sighs and his eyes grow distant, “more than anything, I hate waste.”

“That seems… inconsistent."

“How so?”

It’s difficult to articulate but you do your best. “You live an opulent life. I’m sure there will be waste tonight from our dinner alone,” you gesture to the food on the table, “the wine, we likely won’t finish. Your tastes in decorations are maximalist, to say the least. And, you’ve collected more firearms than even Onychinus could reasonably use over a century.”

“Not that kind of waste. Wasted potential … people who could have been more.”

“And you think you’re helping them achieve more by what? Ruling over them?”

“Guiding,” he corrects, “most people want to be told what to do. I just give direction.”

He’s turning his hand over, inspecting his fingernails with a touch of boredom. As if this is a lesson he’s taught you many times.

“How generous.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Better me than someone else. If you spend more time in the N109 Zone, I think you’ll come to agree.”

“And what do you value, then?”

“What do you mean?” His head is tilted in consideration.

“If you hate wasted potential, what do you value? Realized potential?”

“Yes. I won’t lie to you. I value power. Strength. Integrity. The discipline to know oneself and stand by it.”

“Ah, I see. Might makes right and all that.”

“No. Right makes might. But only if you can stomach what’s required.”

“Spoken like a true despot.”

He clutches his chest mockingly, “you wound me.”

“Have you mastered yourself, then? Conquered your desires?”

“No,” he relaxes back into his chair and spreads his knees, “But I also don’t deny that they exist. Can you say the same?”

Heat crawls up your neck and you take a sip of wine rather than answer the question.

More than the food on the table, you spend the evening chewing on the food for thought he gives you. 

He is not what you’d expected. 

Fair or not. 

Less of a brute and more of a poet. Or maybe a poet stuck in a brute’s body.

When the fire and conversation dwindle, he stands and you follow suit.

“I trust you can find your own way back to your room?”

His expression is unreadable and, when you pause, he continues.

“Or, should I call for the butler?” His hand reaches for a bell you hadn’t noticed but you shake your head.

“I’ll manage.”

Without bidding him goodnight, you slip out of your chair and the formal dining room. The dress is a bit too long, especially without shoes and you stumble on the stairs. Only to find yourself scooped up again off the floor. 

It’s not the sack of flour over-the-shoulder hold, but a one-armed hold entirely unique to Sylus. His face is just inches from yours and he looks down with fond annoyance. 

“My clumsy little hunter,” he shakes his head, “however have you managed to stay alive with such terrible reflexes?”

Scowling, you try to jump out of his hold but his grip only tightens. Only the thin, scratchy silk chiffon is between his hand and your skin. The pads of his fingers dig into the fat of your hips and thigh. Involuntarily you inhale deeply and take in his scent - cedar, musk, smoke, gunpowder. It only makes your heart race faster.

“Ah-ah,” he chides, “trip once, shame on you, trip twice, shame on me.”

He only sets you back down on your feet once he reaches your door. Your hand is on the doorknob but you hesitate before turning it.

“Need me to tuck you in?” He asks. It’s teasing but there’s something else behind it too.

Looking backwards over your shoulder you answer quietly, “maybe.”

He smiles and shakes his head, turning to walk away.

“Sylus?” You call after him. He doesn’t look back.

“Ask me again when you know what you want.”

Your bed is an antique four-poster, laden with a heavy red velvet canopy and drapes. The pillows are soft and the sheets are luxurious, if a bit cold. It takes some trial and error to sort out the light switches but eventually you manage to turn everything off. 

It’s quieter in the country and, even with the window curtains drawn, it’s not entirely dark in the room. Not because of any traffic lights or cars but because the stars are so bright that they cast light into the room. 

Part of you wishes you could borrow a shirt to sleep in but your well-supplied closet gives you no such excuse. Instead you have multiple nightgowns to sleep in. It’s not like the dowdy ones your grandmother wore - heavy flannel with collars and lace at the end - but short and silky. In keeping with your theme for the night, you choose a red one. It barely covers you and you shiver in it.

Was there any chance he’d come to you tonight? 

No, you’d made your openness clear and he’d walked away.

Still you make a special effort to shave and moisturize again before bed, layering on vaseline on your lips and swishing mouthwash at the last possible moment before going to sleep. Thankfully, the butler had put out a carafe of water and you hydrate to skip the hangover tomorrow.

Your couch nap took the edge off of your exhaustion and it takes you some time to fall asleep, but eventually you drift off.

Only to awaken much later to the feeling of the mattress underneath you dipping. Someone is under the covers and has his large, warm, rough hands each holding one ankle. Sleep still calls you and you don’t open your eyes. 

You are with Sylus. 

You are safe.

He noses along the arch of one foot, holding the outside of your ankle. It tickles a bit and you try to pull away, but his grip only firms in response, now holding two hands on one leg. 

He has one on top of your foot, the other sinking into your calf. The feeling of his sure, strong hands is enough for desire to coil inside your lower belly and you feel dampness beginning to seep out of you.

His mouth, hot and wet, presses open kisses along the inside of the arch of your foot, moving upwards to pause and suck at your ankle. You sink further into the pillow and hum. 

Finally. 

The naked dress had worked after all. 

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

His teeth nip lightly at your ankle bone and you squeak in surprise. His quiet laughter comes out in small puffs of air against your leg as he moves upwards. He pushes your legs further apart as he moves up towards you. 

He’s relentless in his attentions, kissing up your calf leaving no spot untouched. His hands caress your thighs as he moves past your knee and at last his mouth hits the sensitive, soft skin at your inner thigh. 

The pads of his fingers press into the fat of your upper legs and he moans against your skin in appreciation. 

Lazily, he kisses and massages your muscles, sore after so much riding, working his way up to the crease between your leg and torso. 

When he hits the line of your panties he inhales deeply, licks the crease and pulls away shuffling back down to restart the process all over again with the other leg.

You whine in frustration, but he only laughs in response. 

It seems he’s even slower and more deliberate the second time. 

Nipping, licking, biting, nosing sucking he moves oh-so-slowly from the knuckle of your big toe to the center of your arch. Up to your ankle where he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. His teeth graze along the inside of your calf, laving over the spots where his sharp canines leave red lines. 

Once he gets to your thigh again, your hands reach down for his head and thread in his silver hair, tugging him towards your center. He only shakes his head, unwilling to be corralled. 

“Patience is a virtue, little hunter.” 

He whispers it from under the covers, pressing a closed mouth kiss to the crease between your leg and hips.

After many torturous minutes, he’s back at the apex between your legs. The familiar sensation of his Evol on your skin encircles you and you choke on a gasp as it dissolves the only cloth layers remaining between the two of you. 

Your nightgown and panties are gone - crushed into nothingness. 

His arms wrap around your legs, pulling you impossibly closer as he buries his face into you. With your hands in his hair, you try your best not to push his head down and wait patiently. He’s still pressing kisses to the skin around your core until he licks one long, broad stripe up your center. 

His tongue is inhumanly hot and long and, when it presses inside of you, you can’t help the keening whimper that escapes. 

He licks again at you and pulls away. Why is he torturing you like this? You groan in protest but he only raises his head slightly away.

“Delicious.” He whispers into your skin, before launching himself back into taking you apart, piece by piece. 

His mouth settles over your clit, sucking and pressing in a steady rhythm as heat builds inside of you. Mewling whines pant out of you against your will and your hips buck against his face. 

Suddenly, you're held tightly in place, hips stilled with his black and red mist. 

Meanwhile one hand reaches up to massage your bare breast, his thumb brushing over your peaked nipple and the other teases at your entrance. Two fingers press into you without warning, curling into the ‘come here’ gesture immediately hitting that one spot.

Your hands grip tighter into his hair and you clench your jaw as the pressure builds and builds. 

“Sylus–”

“Hmmm?” He hums against you and the vibrations only intensify the sensation of his mouth against you.

He pulls off entirely when you don’t answer him, and you’re able to see his red eyes for the first time tonight. 

His chin is wet with your slick and his spit. The sight alone is enough to make your head swim. Long, calloused fingers continue to pump in and out of you, even as he quirks an eyebrow and looks up at you. All infuriating innocence.

“Yes, kitten? What is it?”

You can only groan and let the back of your head hit the pillow. And then he’s back on you licking and sucking in perfect tandem with his fingers.

“Sylus. Fuck. Please.”

“More?” He asks, increasing the pressure of his tongue and fingers and it’s too much.

“No– no, don't change anything. I’m–”

But you're cut off by your own groans as he resumes the prior pattern of licking, sucking, curling into you. 

“Yes,” your breathing is growing heavy and a flush is crawling up your bare chest, “yesyesyes. Sylus– fuck. I’m–”

When you come it’s hard and furious, crashing over you in a surge of pleasure. The intensity is almost painful, and it’s only his soothing thumb rubbing circles on your ribs that keeps you grounded in the here and now. 

With a jolt, you sit up, suddenly awake as a bright moonbeam flashes over your pillow. Breathing heavily, you take stock of the bed. 

You’re alone. 

Your nightgown is intact as are your panties. Although you suspect they’re now absolutely drenched.

Fuck.

Two wet dreams in two days. About your client.

It’s still dark out when you leave the manor. After your extremely vivid dream, you’re unable to fall back to sleep. It feels wrong, somehow, to lust after your client and host when he’s been nothing but respectful towards you. 

Unbelievable. Unconscionable, really. 

Only Sylus Qin could make you feel guilty for lusting over him. He was supposed to be soliciting you, not the other way around. 

Bastard. 

You need a reality check. He is a dangerous man. No matter how good looking. And sweet. And clever. Thoughtful.

No. 

You chastise yourself and push the thoughts away.

Dressed in warm wellies, jeans, and a heavy coat you visit the horses. They’re still asleep and you quickly leave the barn, not wanting to force them to join in your misery. 

Wandering the property, you find a chicken coop and collect a basket full of eggs before making your way to the walled garden. A heavy mist has rolled in over the hills. The sun begins to peak out, driving away the mist and coating every surface with cold dewdrops. 

Your wandering brings you through a stone archway into the tucked away kitchen garden. 

The walls are high, built to keep out the wind and wild animals. 

Inside, the beds are laid out in careful geometry, rows and columns of foot paths lead from herbs to greens to seasonal vegetables. Someone must take care to keep the garden like this and you wonder how many hidden staff live at the ranch full time.

The sun is strongest over the herbs - rosemary, thyme, sage, mint, lavender and a few others you can’t identify. You’re perched on a stone, feet on the pathway and keeping your hands busy gathering herbs.

This is where Sylus finds you, sitting in the cold, stripping thyme from small wooden twigs into your hands.

“It suits you, too.” He says by way of greeting and you look up.

He’s underdressed for the cold. Only in a grey sweater and slacks but seems unbothered by the brisk temperature. Maybe his high body temperature gave him some kind of immunity to the cold. You avoid eye contact, unwilling to engage his Aether Core, focusing on the task at hand.

“What does?”

“The countryside.”

You smile lightly at the ground. The sun is beginning to warm the back of your neck, but the stone beneath you is still cold to the touch. Silver outlines cling to the rosemary and thyme. The air is damp when you breathe it in.

“Your world isn’t what I thought it would be.”

He comes to sit on the opposite side of the path across from you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“This isn’t really my world,” he shakes his head, “I don’t come here often.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe,” he takes the herbs from your hands to finish your work, “but, it just so happens that I’m a person who prefers to live in the dark.”

The sun is rising in the distant east, chasing away the mid-autumn fog in the field below. Sunshine falls in broad strips over the planes of his face. His features are a rare beauty and the sun brings it out. The curve of his lips, the texture of his skin, the downturned inner corners of his eyes, the elegant hook of his nose. His eyes are bright rubies and you can’t help staring into them, despite the risk. Beautiful.

“The light seems to like finding you though.”

His features twist in confusion and he looks at you for a moment too long to be considered casual. His face flickers then closes off.

“Did you have a plan for these?” He asks, holding up the herbs, “or are you stripping my potager to spite me?”

“Everything I do is to spite you.”

“Of course. Still, should we deliver these to chef?”

“Yes. Let’s.”

You follow him into the kitchen which, logically, is right off of the kitchen garden. It’s a sun drenched space, clean and entirely empty.

For a moment Sylus looks around, confused.

“Ah, right. It’s Sunday. The staff has the day off. We’re on our own it seems.”

“Sundays off? That’s very nice of you.”

He shrugs, “it’s worth it to retain good talent.”

“I see. So…do you know how to make omelettes, Sylus Qin? Or do you only know how to break eggs?”

“Ha. Ha.” He walks over to think and sets about pulling out relevant equipment. 

“Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

The kitchen has soaring ceilings, white washed walls and a fireplace tall enough that even Sylus could stand up straight in it without hitting the chimney. 

The walls are lined with graduated copper pots and pans hung in order from smallest to largest. At the center of the kitchen is a free standing large wooden prep table, wood scrubbed raw. Dust motes hang in the air, highlighted by the sunbeams shining through a tall bank of windows. 

“Why two sinks?” You ask.

“One is for meat.”

“And the other for veg?”

“Close. The other one was actually originally for flowers. See the sloping side? It was made for the gardener to quickly trim and arrange bouquets so the lady of the house would wake to fresh flowers every morning.”

“How romantic.”

“Isn’t it? Until the husband found out they were sleeping together and killed him in a fit of rage.”

“Even more romantic.”

“... And I thought I could guess your tastes by now.”

Sylus delights in telling you anecdotes of the kitchen and historical facts about the estate. And, you love hearing them.

Rather than fussy omelettes, you’ve settled on pancakes. A nostalgic Sunday breakfast from your Bloomshore days. Going by memory means taste-testing.

Holding out a finger covered in pancake batter, you consider smearing it on the back of Sylus’ neck as he busies himself cutting fruit. The moment of hesitation costs you.

Too slow.

He catches you wrist, brings your finger to his mouth and sucks it clean in one slow drag.

“Delicious,” he murmurs.

Did he…? Flustered, you turn back to the griddle and flip a pancake – too early. It’s a bit of a mess. Sylus walks up next to you and scrapes away the ruined pancake tutting under his breath.

“Tsk, tsk. Patience is a virtue, little hunter.”

“I knew it!” 

You smack his arm with the spatula. 

“Uncalled for, Miss Hunter.”

He wipes the batter off his sleeve and raises an eyebrow.

“You!” 

“Me…? What?” He asks, all injured innocence. Your narrow eyes meet his wide ones and you poke your index finger into his chest.

“You made me dream that!”

“I don’t know what you could mean.” He pouts and gestures to the stove, “aren’t you going to offer me some breakfast?”

He's quoting you from the night before. You hate how much you like it.

“You're mocking me,” you accuse, but turn anyway to pour a new batch of pancakes.

He takes a step towards you. You take a step back. Straight into the counter. The sharp edge of the counter top bites into your back. 

Nowhere to go.

His hands come to rest on either side of you, clutching the counter edge as he towers over you. An exhale catches in your throat.

He’s looking down his nose at you, garnet eyes alight and you wonder what you look like to him. 

“I'm not mocking you,” he smiles and leans down, “I'm just a very, very hungry man.” 

He reaches past you and grabs a peach out of the fruit basket, sinking his teeth into it and sucking out the juice. He maintains eye contact, even when it drips down his chin.

Holy fuck.

Your throat bobs involuntarily and you have to look away.

He’s said something but you can’t hear him over your pulse roaring in your ears.

“What?” You ask, breathless.

“The pancakes are burning.” He repeats.

Your phone rings and he pulls it out of your pocket, holding it in front of you.

HUNTER ASSOCIATION: ALERT! METAFLUX SURGE NEAR LINKON CITY CENTER. ALL LICENSED HUNTERS MOBILIZE.

Just a moment later it rings again, this time with a phone call.

Incoming Cap’t Jenna

“Rookie. Where are you?”

“Um. I’m– uh” You look at Sylus’ back as he fusses over the griddle. Your heart squeezes uncomfortably at the thought of leaving this blissful domestic bubble.

“I don’t care. When can you be in Linkon?”

“...An hour?”

The tone sounds. Sylus turns around and quirks an eyebrow at you.

“Duty calls?” He asks.

You can only nod, reluctant.

“Go. Do what you need to do.”

When you linger in the doorway, Sylus notices.

“You can always come and work for Onychinus if you prefer.”

“Tempting, but no.”

“What’s the difference?” He smiles.

“Aren’t you supposed to keep business and pleasure separate?”

“For me, there’s no difference. Especially when it comes to you.”

“I’d rather stay on your personal payroll.”

He nods and hands you a small slip of paper. Nine digits.

“By the way, the next time you miss me so desperately that you’re prepared to risk life and limb, try calling.”

“I thought you preferred the Agency buffer?”

“I prefer you alive. Call me before you drive into the N109 Zone at 2:00AM again.”

Chapter Text

When you get to Linkon City Center, the situation is dire. The hunters are overwhelmed and you can see several injured civilians. 

Without hesitating you join the fray, pushing wanderers back away from the city center at the vanguard with the rest of the Alpha Unit. The team is attempting a V-shaped formation but as your peers fall, more and more wanderers pour through the holes. 

Panic starts to seep in. 

The odds are grim. 

Even with all local hunters mobilized, it's not clear that today’s battle will be one to walk away from.

Sweeping your eyes over comrades, you look for someone, anyone you can resonate with to amplify their attacks. 

But there's no one familiar enough. 

Reloading, you take a deep breath. 

This is the vow you've taken. 

To fight and die alongside your brethren is an honor. Unbidden, Sylus’ red eyes flash in your mind’s eye.

Blinking the image away, you focus on the here and now, pushing wanderers further back even as exhaustion threatens to overwhelm you.

And then he's there. 

You feel him before you see him.

Xavier’s Evol surges through the hunters, snapping them into focus. His presence alone is enough to turn despair into adrenaline.

The fatigue in your body burns off, replaced by borrowed clarity. The V-formation tightens and the troop’s movements thread together, synchronized.

The air hums with power as his presence steadies the field.

His sapphire eyes lock on you.

“Let's end this,” he orders.

Immediately you place a hand on his heart and he covers it with one of his own. 

Light Evol flows out in blinding detonations and extinguishes the wanderers one by one. 

When there are none left, you sink to your knees, exhausted. 

He comes to kneel beside you, supported by the lightblade he presses into the ground. One arm grips your waist and the other pushes down on the hilt to bring you back to standing. 

“Where were you this morning?” Xavier asks.

“Huh?” Your vision is blurring.

“I came by your door. You weren’t home.”

But then the medics are rolling through, putting an oxygen mask over your face and Xavier disappears into the crowd. 

Tara drops a copy of the Daily Linkon newspaper on your desk with a plop. 

UNICORNS SAVE CITY 

Underneath the dramatic headline is a picture of Xavier in the foreground, Evol bursting from his hands and spreading out like a spider’s web to destroy wanderers. His hair flutters in the wind and his face has a rare expression of fierce determination. Half-cropped out of the picture is your arm: hand over his heart, fingers intertwined as your Evols resonate. 

It’s a dramatic picture and you’re glad not to be featured in it.

The caption is short: 

HOMETOWN HERO: Xavier Shen, local UNICORN, and an unidentified colleague, saved Linkon City Center from Sunday’s metaflux surge, grasping a narrow victory from the jaws of defeat. 

“Sorry you weren’t in the picture!” Tara says, coming to sit next to you.

“That’s for the best, I don’t want to be recognizable. It was all Xavier... Have you seen him today?“

After escaping the mandatory medical exam and heading home, you’d planned to deliver a well-crafted excuse to Xavier but he was nowhere to be found.

“Oh, he and Captain Jenna have to do a press junket. Pressure from brass to ask for more budget after this fiasco.”

“What’s that?” Simone nods towards the paper on your desk, “this came for you by the way.”

She places a glass vase down. 

It’s wrapped in glossy black tissue paper all tied up with a black satin bow.

The florist’s card labels the flowers in the bouquet: burgundy ranunculus, hellebore and myrtle. The deep reds and greens need no note, but Tara plucks one off anyways before you can stop her.

To: Linkon’s unidentified hero.

Tara reads it aloud to the three of you and glances at your face.

“Wow, do you have a secret admirer?” She asks, enthralled, “there’s nothing in the ‘from’ line!”

“No.” 

You’re quick to deny it.

“Look at that smile on her face! You do have one don’t you! What’s he like?” Simone draws it out in a sing-song voice.

You can only shake your head, trying and failing to force the smile off of your face. 

For such a serious incident, you feel like a teenager getting a bouquet from - who else? - Sylus.

“No idea.” You shrug.

“Liar,” Tara winks conspiratorially at you before turning to Simone, “look at that smile! Somebody's in looooooove…”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Simone looks ready to further the interrogation but has no choice other than to drop it when Xavier walks up.

“What’s this?” He asks.

You toss the newspaper into his arms. 

“You're the Hero of Linkon,” you smile. 

“Not again,” he shakes his head regretfully and sighs reading the caption aloud, “unidentified colleague?” he looks up at you with large, round eyes, “I’ll call them and have them issue a correction.”

“No!” You reply immediately, “I prefer anonymity. I have more flexibility in undercover missions if I’m not a recognizable name or face.”

“Don’t worry,” Tara says, “she got her flowers from her mysterious admirer.” 

She points to the bouquet on your desk and you wonder why Sylus had to send them to the office rather than your apartment. 

Too late now, anyone who would and could be suspicious had already seen it. 

Xavier glances at the bouquet and his eyes narrow slightly before turning to you.

“Can I talk to you?” He asks.

The other girls exchange knowing looks and you nod, following Xavier into a quiet, tucked away office. 

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” He opens with a foreboding question.

“...No?” 

“Really?” His eyes harden.

“What is this about Xavier?”

“What were you up to while I was traveling?” He asks. 

Your heart begins to beat faster and your palms sweat as his blue eyes look probingly into yours, unflinching. 

“I’ve submitted my reports. You can find everything in the appropriate file,” you answer.

He doesn’t reply or give you an out. Instead, he comes around the table and leans against it next to your chair. 

“Last chance,” he offers and you can only look away.

What could you say without giving everything away? 

Yes, you’d been in the N109 Zone - how many times now? - and were receiving large sums of money from a wanted criminal and the leader of a crime syndicate. 

The excuse you’d practiced earlier about taking up hiking on the weekends seems pathetic in the light of day.

Part of you wants to ask how this could be relevant when you are completing your responsibilities on time. The other part recognizes that you’ve been an active aider and abettor of crime. Even if that technically didn’t include prostitution. Yet. 

Still, you can’t offer anything until you know what he suspects.

When you don’t reply and look fixedly in the other direction, he pushes off of the conference room table and walks towards the door. 

He’s facing away from you with his hand on the door knob.

“If you need help, I hope you’ll feel comfortable asking me.”

“I will. Thank you… Xavier.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgement and leaves you alone in the room. 

“This group has been selected due to suitability and believability. Each of you has kept a low profile, are members of elite units and fit the profile based on our data unit’s extensive analysis. If any of you are not comfortable with the assignment, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Captain Jenna pauses and looks around the room. 

No one speaks.

“Very well then. Hand over all personal devices: watches, phones, earpieces, computers. Everything will go into a Faraday cage.”

A tech assistant moves around the room collecting and, as discreetly as you can, you shoot a text to Sylus.

“Going to the N109 Zone border for work. Don’t panic. No phone.”

Not enough info, but it would have to do. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed but best to cross your t’s and dot your i’s where he was concerned.

When the assistant comes around to you, you drop your items into the bag.

“Very well,” Captain Jenna claps her hands together once, “as you’re aware, there’s an epidemic of street drugs impacting Linkon’s youth with ten deaths reported this week alone. They are using protocore infused chemicals to alter the user's state of mind. The drug in question is called Prolux.”

Xavier steps out from next to Captain Jenna to continue the briefing. He’s holding up printed pictures of a bright pink drug - both in powdered and pill forms. 

“So far, sellers of the drug have avoided all attempts at detection and capture,” he pulls up a map of the destination schematics, “tonight, you’ll be traveling to the club where we believe the drugs are being sold. You will need to use every last element of infiltration to identify the sellers and gain knowledge about their distribution. Finding one person to sell to you isn’t enough. We need to cut off the head of the snake.”

“That’s right,” Jenna says, “you’ll each be receiving one anti-tox dose. Use it sparingly. You may need to take the drug to convince the sellers of your legitimacy. Stick close to your unit. You’ll be on your own for extraction if things go awry.”

“I was meant to join you all,” Xavier interjects, “but my recent…publicity…has made this impossible. I regret the change in tonight’s plans but we still need to take the opportunity. I’ll be nearby in case of mission failure.”

“Any questions?” 

After a few logistical concerns are addressed, the unit moves out. You’re already in your ‘disguise’ for the night. 

No guns as the club has a metal detector, but two ceramic daggers remain under your short skirt.

Before Sylus, you would’ve been extremely uncomfortable wearing this on a mission. But after the last two months, you felt you could face off against any enemy in any outfit. 

No matter how scandalous. 

One unexpected benefit to being the Sugar Baby of a notorious criminal. 

Simone is wearing a near identical outfit next to you.

Thigh high leather boots with moderate heels, thighs barely covered by short black skirts and wires hidden under tiny black tops. It is anything but modest. 

However, unlike the clothing your agency had sent you to Sylus in, these are reinforced and bullet proof, protecting your vital organs. 

It’s a long ride to the club, the unit has to move in at staggered times. When you walk in with Simone, you can’t see any of your other colleagues. 

You do your best to stay calm and keep anxiety off your face.

The club is dark. The music is pounding and the only light source is strobing neon lights. You take a deep breath and reassure yourself with quick checks of your daggers and anti-tox syringe.

“I’ll get us drinks,” Simone leans in to whisper into your ear, “our usual.” 

A nod.

She’ll get two soda waters in martini glasses with olives. Make it look like you are both sloshed and avoid being handed anything new.

She returns without issue and the two of you make your way around the perimeter, eyes out for any money or items changing hands. 

The two of you dance idly in a corner and it’s not long before someone approaches you. It’s a young man in a too-tight black suit.

“Hey ladies,” he opens with a grin, “you looking to have a good time tonight?”

His hand flashes a mix of pills and ampoules of powder.

Simone smiles winningly and runs her hand up and down his arm, “absolutely, what do you have for us?”

“Ecstasy, Amp, Flux, Molly…pick your poison.” He smiles and takes a step closer.

“Hmmm,” Simone leans into him pretending to consider his offerings, “do you have anything… newer?”

“Newer?” He asks.

“You know what I mean.” She’s smiling seductively and takes a deep drink of her ‘martini,’ giggling when she stumbles slightly into his arms and sloshes the drink on the floor.

His eyes slide over to you suspiciously.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” 

He’s looking at you questioningly and you try to set your gaze in that half-dazed drunk look Simone does so well.

“I think you do.” Simone presses him.

“Your friend looks like a cop.”

Without missing a beat the two of you burst into laughter and bend forward slightly to distract him. 

“Want me to arrest you?” You ask.

Simone feels up his arm and squeezes his bicep, “she’s not a cop. But how do we know you aren’t?”

He softens and turns towards her.

“Let’s all take one.”

“Let’s.” You answer.

His hand disappears into his coat, and he pulls it out to reveal three bright pink pills. 

Prolux. 

“You first.” He nods and you pop it into your mouth. It fizzes and dissolves in a nanosecond. 

“Vinny!” Another man comes up behind him, “boss wants you downstairs.” 

The drug dealer slips away and you pull out the anti-tox, discreetly jabbing it into your thigh before tossing the evidence into the corner.

“You okay?” Simone asks, shielding you from view as you administer it.

“I’m fine. I don’t feel anything yet.”

“The anti-tox will kick in in a few. Are you okay if I follow them?”

“Go.”

It’s your only lead so far. You still haven’t seen the other members of the team and wonder if they weren’t able to gain entry.

“Stay here.” She commands and you nod, taking a seat on a corner bench carved from the stone walls. 

The surface is hard, porous and slimy. 

It feels disgusting against the backs of your thighs and shoulder blades where bare skin is exposed. 

The cold stone feels increasingly disturbing on your skin. 

But the pounding music vibrates the air around you and you find yourself standing up relishing the sensations flowing through you. 

The anxiety you felt for Simone and the unknown drug in your system melts away as euphoria takes its place. The only problem is your skin feels increasingly flushed and you wonder if anyone would care if you pull off your top.

This DJ is amazing. You don’t think you’ve ever heard such good music. You have to get the details before you leave. 

The colors are flashing brighter, the club is suddenly full of the most beautiful people, dancers of incredible skill and you move through them feeling your blood pulse in time to the beat.

Your hands are moving up of their own accord, hips swaying as you move through the throng of convulsing bodies. 

Their sweat sings to you and everything finally makes sense. 

All of humanity is connected. 

Maybe wanderers and humans just need to talk to each other. 

Yes, that is the answer.

If only Sylus were here. You sigh happily and picture his face.

And then he is.

Leaning with his left elbow and hip against the wooden bar, he holds a drink in his right hand.

You can’t smile any wider as you bop through the crowd, snaking between gyrating bodies to make your way over to him. 

He’s standing still at the bar, sipping from a short clear glass and wearing far too many clothes. 

You have to remember to tell him that.

He’s in all black - button down, slacks, a diagonal strap over his chest for some unthinkable reason. 

Your hands move up to the strap right away and yank it before you even greet him. He starts a bit, looking down at you.

“Sylus!” 

Why isn’t he as excited to see you as you are to see him? 

He has a small, closed mouth smile on his face and you can see in the mirror behind the bar that yours is as wide as can be. As are your eyes.

“Sylus!” You exclaim again, stepping into his personal space. 

You slot your right foot in between his legs and your left on the outside of his foot. 

He’s saying something but the tone is too vibe-killing to listen. Instead, you nuzzle into his chest, nosing against his sternum first, then into his collarbone and throat.

“Mmmm, how do you always smell so good?” Your voice is whiny but you need to know. 

Cedar, musk, smoke, gunpowder. 

Inhaling deeply, you try to memorize the notes of him in your brain. 

It’s not enough. 

Your tongue laves over his throat, licking broad stripes over his skin. Until his hands find your elbows and he pushes you off with a pop.

“Hmmph,” you pout but keep your grip on his leather strap with one hand, brushing your fingertips over the contours of his lats with the other. You hum with appreciation of his solid form. So wide.

“You’re drunk, little hunter.” he accuses.

“No!” you protest, “smell my breath!”

He is being so unfair. 

You haven’t had anything to drink. 

Indignant, you open your mouth wide and stick your tongue out, arching your back to present it for inspection. 

The position forces your breasts closer together and they threaten to spill out of your top, pressing between your elbows and against his front.

There’s something deliciously hard and growing harder against your lower stomach. Experimentally you roll your hips into him and he grunts lightly. His right eye starts to glow and he closes his eyes. Unthinking, you follow his lead and close your own.

When he doesn't say anything, you open your eyes and look up to make sure he can see what he's supposed to do. Rolling against him again, you brush a thumb over his ribs to get him to open his eyes.

But, he only looks away to break eye contact.

Eyebrows pinched and mouth open, he moves his hands to grip your elbows and fully removes you from him.

“Close your mouth.” He commands and you do, realizing you’d had your tongue out for him to inspect this whole time. 

Why hasn’t he praised you for being sober? 

You let him hold you by the elbows but spin in his grip, trying to grind your rear back up against him. 

Mmmm yes. That’s good. He's fully hard. You moan quietly and rub your ass against him. 

“We’re leaving.” It's choked and final. 

“No!” You insist.

Just then another familiar face swims into view.

“Simone!” You shout her name, “you’re here!” 

It is amazing to see Simone. You haven't seen her in so long. 

Maybe she can dance with you instead of Sylus. 

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Simone tries to pry you away from Sylus but you don’t want to be moved, “my friend had a bit too much to drink,” she explains. 

“No I didn’t!” You insist but Simone pays you no mind.

“You don’t know him. We need to go.” She murmurs under her breath to you.

“Yes I do!” 

“No. You don’t. Let’s go.”

“It’s okay,” Sylus finally chimes in, “I do know her. I can get her home safely tonight.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Simone retorts.

“She’s clearly compromised.” 

His voice lingers on the last word and you feel like you’re missing something between your two companions as Sylus and Simone communicate wordlessly.

Just then another familiar face pops up.

“VinnAY!” You shout. It’s the greasy drug dealer from before. 

He doesn’t look too happy to see you. 

Hopefully you didn’t call him greasy out loud. Oops.

“Let’s go.” Vinny is taking Simone’s elbow and you feel like a human centipede of hands to elbows. The thought makes you giggle uncontrollably. 

“I want to stay,” you pout as Simone tugs you towards greasy Vinny.

“She’s staying with me.” Sylus insists.

“How do you know him?” Simone whispers to you.

Ah, this is the issue.

You lean forward and whisper-shout, “he’s my sugar daddy - but he won’t fuck me! Isn’t that so unfair?” 

You turn around to frown at Sylus.

He leans forwards and tries to take more of your body into his grip.

“We’re old friends from way back. Besties.” Sylus insists. 

You sigh heavily and shake your head.

“He still won’t fuck me though.”

“This one is fun.” One of greasy’s friends says and you decide it’ll be more fun just to dance alone.

Simone looks increasingly worried and you wish she’d just relax.

“She’s clearly compromised.” Sylus repeats to Simone.

“She’ll be okay.” Simone glances at her analog wrist watch.

“Both girls or no deal.” Greasy insists.

“Party?” You ask.

“Yes. A secret party.”

“Let’s gooooooo!” you draw it out and pull both Simone and Sylus with you.

“No Lurch.” Greasy #2 looks at Sylus and you pout.

“No fun!” 

“He your boyfriend?” Greasy #1 asks.

“Nope,” you pop the ‘p’ and glare at Sylus, “just my bestie.”

“Any sign of funny business, he’s out.”

Sylus nods and walks tightly behind you as you follow the men down a series of long tunnel-like hallways sloping downwards. 

Slowly, and then all at once, the temperature feels cold. The texture of the air feels slimy and gross on your skin. 

Nausea threatens your throat and you swallow it down. 

The euphoria that had been clouding your mind is eaten away by anxiety. 

Something is wrong. 

But you're not sure what. 

The group in front of you is chatting and stumbling and laughing. 

Vaguely you remember your mission to get intel on Prolux. 

When you stumble, his hand shoots out to stabilize your hip. 

“It's okay,” Sylus whispers into your ear, barely audible over the din of the club behind you, “stay focused.” 

The man at the head of the pack pushes a door open and the group spills in. 

Clarity fully snaps into your mind as the antitox finally takes hold. 

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

You've forced Sylus into participating in a hunter mission. An undercover and underground one at that. 

Panicked, you look up at him with clear eyes and tiny pupils. The realization that you're ‘back’ is clear on his face. 

He rubs soothing circles into your hip and shakes his head minutely. 

With a deep breath you follow the group into the underground room. 

A reinforced steel door clanks into place behind you. 

Simone is still sober but plays the role of flirty drunk well. 

Laughter flows out of her glittery and bright like champagne and the men drink it up, stupid and smug.

You use the lull to scope out the room. 

One exit, one vent. 

No windows. 

No guards per se but the men you can see have firearms strapped to their hips or tucked into waist bands. 

Hopefully this is the center of their operations and you can grab something, anything to take back to the lab for analysis. The conversation is slowing and your attention pans back to the back and forth.

“C’mon sweetheart,” Vinny spins a switchblade in his palm, “one hit, on the house.”

His grin is all teeth. Your hands start to shake ever so slightly from withdrawal and Sylus covers both of them with one of his.

“You’re sweet,” Simone’s lashes flutter, “but I’m already feeling good.”

“Your friend already took one,” he gestures to you with the blade, “you too good to party with us?”

“Of course not,” Simone smiles, “I’m here aren’t I?”

She leans forward and a drop spills from her martini, falling onto the table's surface. Clear, colorless, odorless. 

Vinny looks at the drop and watches it form into a perfect round bead. His eyes flit to Simone, then to you and finally, Sylus. 

Alcohol doesn’t have the same surface tension as water. It doesn’t bead.

Your heart is pounding and you try to actively relax your facial muscles back into a dopey blissed out expression.

Vinny’s grin widens, lazy and mean. 

He snaps his fingers once, “check her.”

One of the men comes back around Simone’s chair, sleeves rolled and knuckles scarred. 

He’s already brushing her hair away from her collarbone, kneading into the muscle with rough fingertips and your heart lurches for your mission partner. 

“Relax, sweetheart.”

She laughs. It’s the wrong kind of laugh. High-pitched and brittle.

He doesn’t answer, palms sliding down her sides, over her ribs. Slow. Deliberate. 

He’s feeling for the mic you know is taped just inside of Simone’s right hipbone. Right by a ceramic dagger and an antitox syringe. You can only hear your pulse roaring in your ears.

You reach for your knives but Sylus stops you, “wait,” he whispers against your ear. 

He’s solid beside you, muscles coiled. Ready.

“Mind if I check lower?” The man patting Simone down pauses his hands at her waistband.

“You buying me dinner first?” She asks breathlessly with a forced smile, craning her head back to look at him. She’s trying to keep her voice from trembling but it’s a losing battle.

“She’s stalling,” Vinny taps his switchblade on the table twice.

“She’s shy,” Sylus drawls, breaking his silence, “you would be too if you had twenty guys watching.”

A few snickers ripple through the room. The tension blinks but doesn’t break.

“Wait…” a man steps out of the shadows and gestures towards Sylus, “don’t I know you?”

He smiles easily, “I don’t think so, friend.”

The man patting her down leans forwards, sniffs. He dips one finger into her martini glass and tastes it, “water,” he declares.

“You wired sweetheart?” Vinny asks and taps the table twice with his index finger. 

The men in the room stand and draw their weapons.

“Why don’t you check yourself?” Simone asks.

“Lift her skirt,” he commands.

For half a second the room is completely still. 

Then it explodes.

Before anyone else moves, Simone is throwing a knife to knock the gun out of the ring leader's hand, but it’s too slow.

The man behind her already has a gun at her temple.

He pulls the hammer back and Simone braces for a shot that never comes. 

Sylus’ red-black mist has pulled away and crumpled the gun. 

“Ready?” He asks and, without thinking, you place your hand over his upturned palm, pulsing your Evol through him for the first time. 

You resonate and his power flows through you, hot and electric. It leaves you gasping and when you open your eyes again, you’re surrounded by bodies bound in mist. 

In seconds, they’re either dead or unconscious and you stare at Sylus dumbfounded. 

Simone finds an unlocked phone and calls the scene into Xavier.

“Go,” you whisper to Sylus, “I’ll be okay. And… I’m sorry.” 

What exactly you’re apologizing for, you don’t know. 

For roping him into something you should be able to handle alone, maybe.

His eyebrows pinch together and he looks between your eyes for a moment.

“Don’t be.” 

With a snap of his fingers, he vanishes into thin air.

Chapter Text

When the dust settles, the club is cleared out. Xavier takes point on leading the tech team through the club collecting evidence and intel. The mission is a success, but at what cost?

There’s ambulances and sirens filling the streets outside and you’re wrapped in a silver shock blanket as the UNICORN medics take your vitals.

After giving your statement and filing the paperwork, you retrieve your phone from the mobile command center and look around for Sylus.

“Where’s the man of the hour?” Captain Jenna walks around in front of you and you can only furrow your brows slightly in response, still a bit out of it after your Prolux comedown.

“Simone told me a friend of yours saved the day. An Evolver?”

Deny, deny, deny.

“Oh, I don’t know him.”

“No?”

“No. The antitox took forever to kick in. When Simone and I were separated, I went up to him and he followed us. Just a good samaritan.”

“And where is he now?”

“No clue.”

“Too bad, we could use someone like that on the force.”

“Mhhmm.” You hum in agreement and keep your expression carefully neutral, grateful for the dark lighting only punctuated by flashing police lights.

“Good work tonight, rookie.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Need a ride home?”

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown: Two blocks north, turn left.

“Already called a taxi.”

“Alright, be sure to expense it and get some rest. Take the next two days off. And, check in with the medical team if anything comes up.”

It’s the same dark car Sylus drove the night of the dinner party and you open the passenger door without checking who is in the driver’s seat.

The car smells just like him and the tight knot in your stomach unravels when you slide into the car.

“I'll drive you home,” he offers.

“I-” 

“Yes?” He asks, turning to look at you over the console. His red eyes are barely visible in the dark.

“I don't…” the words are caught in your throat, “I don't want you to leave. It can be Linkon or …" 

“Mine?” He finishes

You nod and swallow dryly. Despite all of your earlier drug-induced daring, you suddenly feel shy.

His features soften.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You check, unsure. 

“Okay,” he confirms, “rest. You did well tonight. I’m proud of you.”

Warmth floods your chest and your eyes are damp with some kind of emotion. For the first time ever, you’d resonated with Sylus tonight. Without even thinking about it. 

And, he’d had complete faith in you that you could. 

Your hands are still shaking slightly as your body detoxes from the Prolux. When he offers his hand, resting palm up on the center console, you grasp it and sigh in gratitude, cradling it to your chest and resting on the side of your chair closest to him. 

Despite your closed eyes and bone-tired body, you stay awake for the drive. Your eyes open when the car stops and Sylus takes his hand back. He walks around and opens your door, guiding you into what must be the Onychinus garage. 

When you’re a little unsteady on your legs, he places a hand at the small of your back to support you. Unlike the prior times where you’d pull away or pretend you could walk on your own, you lean into him and wind your arm into his between your bodies.

“Can you walk?” He asks, tilting his head at you.

Part of you wants to say no but you nod your head yes and walk beside him into the main building. 

It’s quiet and empty in the dark base hallways. A fact you’re grateful for. You’d had enough strange men to interact with for one night, even if you knew Sylus had his men under control.

He deposits you in an ornate bedroom. 

“Sit,” he eases you into a plush lounge chair, bringing the ottoman closer to you and pulling your feet onto it, “I’ll be right back.”

The same throw from the prior week is hung across the chair. Did he have several of these? Or had it been retrieved from the ranch after you left? 

You pull the throw over yourself and create a little cocoon. 

The creaking door and wheels on the hardwood floor wakes you up.

It’s Sylus and the kind doctor from a few weeks ago.

“Dr. Smith,” your voice is scratchy when you greet him.

“Mademoiselle,” he greets. Sylus must have asked him to call you that, you think to yourself.

He’s wheeling a cart with an IV attached to it and rolls up to you.

You’re still in your miniskirt, tank top and thigh high leather boots, you realize. 

When he takes out a penlight and shines it into each eye, you groan unhappily.

The doctor clucks his tongue once and shakes his head.

“Prolux, you said?”

Sylus has come around to stand beside the doctor with his arms crossed.

“Yes.” He answers.

“With all due respect, sir, I hope you’re not getting into this.” He clucks disapprovingly. 

“I’m not.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Smith brings the IV stand around and prepares the saline bag, tapping it once. 

“The new drug ring was disrupting the balance of the zone. The Hunter’s Association decided to intervene.”

“Very bad business.” The doctor says and you groan again as his cold fingers palpate your lymph nodes on your throat. Everything is sore.

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked the women working for Onychinus to do something like this.”

“Quite right!” The doctor answers, “help me move her to the bed.”

In one fluid motion, Sylus lifts you in two arms and lays you gently down onto the bed, fluffing pillows behind you to keep you partially upright. 

The doctor swabs your forearm with alcohol and you feel the familiar cold sensation of fluids flowing through the needle when he inserts it.

“A basic painkiller, salt water and electrolytes. There’s not much else I can do for her until it’s out of her system. Call me if she gets a fever, vomits or worsens.”

“Will do. Thanks doc.”

The doctor shakes Sylus’ hand and leaves the two of you.

He takes a look at you and sighs.

“Sleep,” he commands and turns to leave.

“Wait–” you call out and he pauses halfway to the door, “stay.”

He pulls the plush lounge chair next to you.

“Don’t go.” 

One of his hands reaches up onto the bed and holds yours, interlacing fingers as you drift off.

When you wake, it’s dark and freezing cold. The IV needle has been removed from your arm and the stand is tucked away in a corner. A bandage covers the injection mark and you wonder how you managed to sleep through the removal. 

You’re on top of the covers, still in your thigh high boots and undercover outfit. 

Your heart sinks. Your phone and watch are missing and you decide to go find him and, by extension, your things. 

The first door you open leads to an ensuite bathroom that’s better stocked than your local pharmacy. At least there was a toothbrush and toothpaste.

Your hands no longer shake and your pupils look normal but you still feel a bit disoriented. The memories of the night prior rush to the surface and you physically cringe. 

Ugh. 

A quick brush of your tangled hair and two swipes of gender-neutral deodorant is the most you care to do.

It’s always dark in the N109 Zone and the Onychinus base is no different. The hallways stretch on and on, full of lingering shadows. 

When you pass the same, empty alcove for the third time, you decide to call out.

“Hello?”

A birdmask pokes its long nose out of a nearby door.

“Luke?” You ask.

“Kieran, actually.”

“Ah… I see,” you look around and cross your arms, suddenly cold, “..do you know where he is?”

“Bossman?”

A nod. He seems a little nervous but answers you.

“Yes, he’s in the building. Do you need directions?”

Another nod.

You follow his instructions to the right floor, down the hallway up to a set of double doors. Without knocking, you push the handle down and step inside only to realize that Kieran had, in fact, sent you to Sylus’ bedroom.

It’s grand, ornate and dim but your eyes adjust quickly. Your heart skips a beat when you realize he’s asleep in his bed at the center of the room. His bare back slowly rises and falls with each breath. A stomach sleeper. The room is neat but lived in. The clothes he wore on your misadventure are discarded in a pile at his bedside. 

The door to his walk-in closet is ajar and, even from the doorway, you can see several rows of button downs and blazers hanging neatly. Unzipping your thigh high boots, you discard them just past the door and pad over to his closet barefoot.

Your top is tight, the boning on the sides holding together the reinforced bullet proof material. Your ceramic daggers are gone but the holsters are still digging into your thighs. Glancing over at the bed, you confirm he’s still sleeping. 

His breathing is slow and regular. 

You angle the closet door a bit and peel off your skirt and top with a sigh of relief. Red divots line your ribs and hips where the gear dug into your skin.

There’s a bureau at the back of the closet with several drawers. The first drawer rolls out easily and has neatly folded socks and boxer briefs. You blush despite yourself and quickly close it. The next has workout gear - tank tops, boxing hand wraps and gym shorts. But it’s the third drawer that has the treasure you seek. Large t-shirts, cotton and soft - worn and washed to perfection. 

Checking his form once more, you confirm he’s asleep before taking a particularly soft feeling t-shirt out of the drawer and to your nose, inhaling deeply. It’s laundered but his scent lingers and you slip it over your head. 

Walking around the dark room, you pause on the other side of the bed. 

Are you really going to do this? But then a shiver rips through you and it solidifies your decision. Must be after effects of Prolux withdrawal. His inhuman warmth is the only thing that can help. Probably.

His face is smushed into the pillow, hair sticking up in every direction. Your eyes follow the slope of his strong brow dipping to his aristocratic nose and glide over his delicate cupid’s bow. His lips are parted slightly in his sleep, features relaxed and calm. At peace. 

Testing, you push a hand slightly into the mattress. 

When he doesn’t move at all, you lean more of your weight onto it. 

He’s still. 

Emboldened, you lift the covers and climb underneath. 

Even laying beside him it’s warmer than your room. Laying on your back you turn your head and watch him breathe in and out. 

God, he’s gorgeous. 

Daringly, you scoot slightly closer to him to get a better look at the details of his face you’ve never been able to properly take in. 

The scar on his inner eyelid, the stubborn blackhead at the tip of his nose, silvery stubble starting to sprout on his chin and jaw usually so clean-shaven when you saw him.

Just as you’re indulging again in tracing the outline of his distinct lips with your eyes, a large arm shoots out and pulls you in close.

Involuntarily, you squeak in surprise as he pulls you flush against himself.

He buries his head into your hair and inhales deeply. 

His body is impossibly hot behind you and you realize he’s wearing neither a shirt nor pants. Your legs are skin to skin and his hand hikes the shirt up when he winds it further around you.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” his voice is rough with sleep.

“You were supposed to stay,” yours is petulant.

“I made no such promise,” he huffs in retort, “you shouldn't be here.”

His words are a stark contrast to his hand, splayed over your hip and fingers resting on your lower belly. 

“Then tell me to leave.”

It's a whisper, thin with anticipation. 

His grip only tightens as his hand moves from your hip to the center of your chest and he pulls your hip closer. His top leg slides between yours, knee pulled up to push you further into him.

“Sleep.” 

You stay awake in his hold, muscles tensed and keenly aware of everywhere your skin presses against his. The heat of his body flows into yours, banishing the earlier chills you felt. His breathing quickly evens out again and his ragged snores fill the room. He’s already back to sleep.

It’s only when you’re dazedly coming back to consciousness that you realize you must’ve fallen back to sleep in Sylus’ arms. Despite the unspoken tension between you, his warmth and smell had comforted you enough to sleep.

When you open your eyes, you see the bed is empty. Alone again. Your heart squeezes.

Why is he always leaving?

But on the bedside, there’s an offering. Your phone, watch, ceramic daggers and a note. A smile spreads over your face.

The indent where he’d slept is still visible in the bed but the sheets are cool. It must’ve been a while since he left.

Scooting over to his side, you pick up the note. It’s sealed in an envelope with a simple ‘For you’ written on the front in his handwriting.

It’s a check.

There’s no note.

Only a memo that reads “Installment 2 of 12."

The bottom of your stomach drops out. You’d thought…

A knock at the door interrupts your swirling mind.

“Sylus?” You ask.

“Mademoiselle? It’s Dr. Smith. Mr. Sylus asked me to check on you.”

Oh.

“Come in.”

Disappointment floods you. Between his absence and the check on the bedside table you feel a confusing mix of intense emotions. Embarrassment, hurt, anger, resentment. You resonated with him last night. Slept in the same bed. 

But it seems your naivete springs eternal. 

The reminder of the true nature of your relationship is a slap.

“Miss?” Dr. Smith has wheeled in his cart an IV stand while you’re lost in far away thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Would you like some privacy to change?”

Right. You’re sitting in Sylus’ bed wearing one of his t-shirts and legs half covered by a blanket. Is the good doctor worried Sylus will be angry if he sees his paid companion’s assets in a non-clinical setting?

“Are you asking for my sake or his?”

He doesn’t answer.

With a sigh, you push Sylus’ t-shirt sleeve up over your shoulder and present your arm for the IV. The concept of ‘privacy’ is a strange one when you’ve sold your time and body for a year.

“You don’t seem to need fluids, but I’d like to take a blood sample if that’s okay.”

“Fine.”

He swabs it with alcohol and pokes into your veins. You watch the tube fill with your blood. An apt metaphor for your relationship with Sylus. Draining away your very essence as you watch.

“Forgive me for asking,” the doctor begins, “but how does a young woman such as yourself get involved in Onychinus at the highest levels?”

Annoyance pricks at your skin.

“I could ask you the same question, doc.” 

It’s unfair but your hurt is simmering into anger and he’s the only available target.

“After all,” you continue as he pulls the needle out and bandages the site, “a check’s a check. Am I right?”

He doesn’t answer but finishes the task and wheels the cart out of the room without a word.

The hurt and embarrassment have faded and only an insistent resentment remains. 

There’s a shopping bag hanging off the bathroom door handle. Inside, jeans, a tank top and a sweater all in your size with tags still on. 

Defiance burns through you and you leave the bag in his closet.

If he wants to treat this relationship as purely transactional, then fine. 

You will too. 

The Onychinus hotel and gift shop.

His bathroom is sprawling. The fog is just about gone from his earlier shower. You turn on the water and let it run, even though it takes seconds to get hot and decide to rifle through his things instead. 

La Mer, La Prairie, Augustinus Bader… expensive tastes for such a tough bad boy. 

The water pressure is delectable and you stand under it until you’re completely awake. Muscles soothed and after-detox chills burned off. You sample each of his soaps, shampoos and conditioners, finding the right blend to capture at least the cedar notes that always clung to his skin. Out of the shower, you towel off and try out his expensive serums and moisturizers. So luxurious. 

In his closet you ignore the outfit he intended. Instead you go through his clothes. Another t-shirt. One that’s a bit smaller. His pants are all far too big but you take a pair of sweatpants. 

And a well worn leather jacket. Hopefully a favorite.

You’d have to wear your thigh high boots. Any shoes were a lost cause and about twice the size of your own feet. Oh well, they’d fit under the sweatpants.

And… 

You shimmy out of your panties and leave them folded neatly atop his closed hamper. 

Meant for narrow male hips, his boxer briefs actually fit decently well and are surprisingly comfortable.

Instead of leaving a note, you take the check and one ceramic dagger and walk over to his beautiful antique desk. 

Moving aside the papers and laptop covering the surface, you place the check directly at the center of the writing surface.

Aim.

Rear back.

And… stab.

Perfection. 

The ceramic dagger pierces the check and nails it to the surface below. 

It makes you feel better. 

A bit. 

But not enough.

So, you use your newfound knowledge of the base and head to the Onychinus garage for another souvenir.

At first, you look for the most expensive vehicle. 

The Aston Martin, the Bugatti… no. The Koenigsegg? Hmmm.

They are recognisable brands. Expensive but off-the-shelf. Too impersonal. You want something he’ll notice. Something he’d miss. 

And then you spot it.

A dark red car. Burgundy, even.

Bingo.

You snap a picture and search online and a description immediately pops up.

Rolls‑Royce Droptail La Rose Noire: a one-of-a-kind roadster inspired by the Black Baccara rose, the La Rose Noire blends haute couture craftsmanship, bespoke horology, and innovative automotive engineering. Only four have ever been produced. Although the original asking price was 212M CN¥ (€26M / $30M USD), the privately held vehicles are now considered beyond priceless.

The driver door is unlocked and the key is laying on the dashboard. 

After all, who would dare to steal from Sylus Qin?

Arrogant prick. 

In a few short minutes you have the car out of the garage and cruising back to Linkon.

“I’m glad you decided to come with me.” Xavier sits, relaxed, on the opposite bench and you smile easily at him. It’s an old-fashioned train with comfortable seating and you’re pleased with the choice to accompany your old mission partner.

“Me too.”

Outside the window, snow falls heavily as you make your way north. It’d been an offer, not an order when he asked you to join him. Without thinking you’d said yes. For a moment, you think back to the conversation the day prior. 

Despite the many accolades for promising intel breakthroughs from the Prolux ring bust, your mood was absolutely foul. Sylus hadn’t called or texted or said anything about the mess you made. 

Nor had he mentioned the stolen car. 

“Up for an adventure? There’s an urgent need for more hunters in the Arctic.” Xavier is standing over your desk. You’re about to decline when your phone rings.

Brrrring!

BANSHEE flashes on your locked screen.

“Hello?” You ask, standing up to take the call in a phonebooth.

“Newbie. Your client booked you.”

“...”

“Any questions?” she probes.

“No.”

“Very well. He offered to either pick you up himself or have our driver deliver you. Which do you prefer?”

A wicked smile spreads over your face.

“He can pick me up himself. What time?”

“20:00 tomorrow evening.”

“Perfect.”

You hang up and walk back over to your desk.

“Prior obligation?” Xavier asks.

“Not at all. How soon can we go?”

Returning to the present you enjoy picturing what Sylus will soon discover. Checking Xavier's watch it’s just past 19:45. You are three quarters to your destination in the Arctic and he’d be pulling up to your apartment complex back in Linkon in fifteen minutes. 

You can imagine it now, the look of surprise on his face as he enters your apartment door. He’ll text you first when you don't come down on time… 

Then call.

Then, finally, after too much time passes he’ll make his way up to your apartment and unlock the deadbolt with his Evol.

Only to find you gone.

And, in your place, an envelope on the kitchen counter with a simple ‘For you’ written in your inelegant script.

He'll open the envelope to find no note, no check and certainly no car keys. Instead he’ll find your abandoned phone and hunter’s watch. The two devices he and the agency use to track your location.

It’s well past midnight when you roll your luggage into the elevator. 

“Mind switching rooms with me?” You ask Xavier.

“Sure… but why?” 

“The guy at the front desk creeped me out.”

“Ah, I’m sorry about that. Of course.” 

You swap key cards and feel a smug grin on your face. Onychinus is known for their hacking prowess but you’d thought ahead.

When you finally flop down on your bed, the day’s travels hit you and you’re ready to sleep.

It’s easier to focus on getting ready for bed when you have no phone, watch or laptop to distract you.

Just as you’re drifting off, the room’s desk phone rings.

Pausing, you let it ring twice before walking over to pick up on the last trill.

“... Hello?”

“Don’t sound so proud of yourself.”

Sylus.

“Who is this?” You ask, trying to sound less smug and more confused.

He exhales harshly.

“I had you pegged as a kitten, but maybe you’re a little mouse.”

“And you’re the cat?”

You can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose and it makes the corners of your lips curl up.

“You’re in breach of your agreement.” His voice is serious and angry. It thrills you with equal parts fear and satisfaction.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” You should be more careful but it slips out before you can stop it.

“Is this really a game you can afford to play?” He taunts and the emphasis on ‘afford’ pushes your anger to override fear.

Your hand reaches around the phone to pinch the power and ethernet cable and you grasp it, replying just before disconnecting the device. 

“Sue me.”

Chapter Text

You sleep wonderfully at the hotel. 

The satisfaction of pulling one over on Sylus warms your bones and washes away any lingering fear of retaliation. It’s just a brief stop for you and Xavier on the way to your final destination - a village far beyond Snowcrest in dire need of hunter support. 

Luckily the roads are clear and you should be able to drive, much faster than sleds or snowmobiles. 

There’s only one car rental business and the pair of you make your way there. 

“The reservation should be under Xavier Shen.” 

The clerk seems confused for a moment and you exchange a worried glance with Xavier. 

Maybe you would have to find alternate forms of transportation after all. 

“One moment.” 

The clerk disappears into the back of the storefront for several minutes before someone else emerges. 

“We’re bringing the car around now.”

With a nod Xavier walks outside and you follow him, rolling luggage to the curb. The clerk from before follows you out and holds a small package out to you.

“I know you had booked an all-wheel-drive SUV but I’m afraid we only have one vehicle available.”

“Seriously?” You can’t help the rude response, “what’s the point of making a reservation?”

This isn’t the first time this has happened to you on a Hunter trip. 

If they try to give you a car that can’t handle a pothole, you’re going to lose it.

“My apologies, please rest assured that there will be no additional charge.”

“Additional?” You ask, taking the envelope in your hands. It’s white and a bit crumpled. 

A familiar black and burgundy two-seater car pulls around. It looks wildly out of place in the parking lot. 

Your jaw is slack when you recognize the Rolls Royce. The envelope in your hands is blank on one side but the other is marked by your own messy handwriting.

‘For you.’

How in the world?

With a clack, you close your mouth and turn to the attendant,

“I hope he doesn’t expect me to drive this all the way back.” 

“I have no idea what you could mean, Mademoiselle.”

“What did you just call me?”

Xavier comes around, oblivious.

“What’s wrong? Is it too small?”

“Yes, it’s way too small. You’re sure there aren’t any other cars?”

“As I said, Mademoiselle, this is the only option available to you and your…partner.”

“Then we’ll have to take a sled to our destination.”

“Unfortunately, all sleds, sleighs, snowmobiles and vehicles have already been reserved in this village and the next one over.”

Anger flashes through you. 

Seriously? 

Accepting the keys from the attendant, you check the envelope for anything else. 

Like a note. 

Or your phone and watch. 

There’s nothing. 

He knows he doesn't need to write anything for you to understand.

The message is clear: you can run, but you can’t hide.

The earlier satisfaction melts into irritation. Well, you certainly weren’t going to treat his supercar with any kind of care if he wanted to send it to make a point. 

“It seems like a nice enough car,” Xavier shrugs.

“You drive, then.” 

You toss the keys to him and he catches them in one hand. The luggage barely fits in the trunk and you slam it harder than necessary. 

“What’s wrong?” Xavier asks when your arms stay crossed for the entire duration of your car ride with him. You can only shake your head.

“Trouble with your ‘secret admirer’?” He presses. 

“Let’s focus on the task at hand.” 

He launches into a formal brief on the village you’re driving to. It’s been evacuated of all civilians due to recent metaflux surges and requires stabilization. 

It sounds like something he probably could have handled by himself but he’s glad for your company and you’re glad for the escape. 

His voice soothes your wounded ego and helps you to refocus on why you’re really here. And to remind yourself that, despite what you said to him, you do not live your life to spite Sylus. 

It’s a long day of fighting wanderers but the gratitude of the local townspeople makes up for it. There’s no hotel in this small town, but they offer you a room in a small, cozy house whose residents are safely outside of the city limits. You and Xavier are tired enough to sleep just about anywhere and quickly settle into the rooms. 

You don’t even notice - at first - the old fashioned rotary phone next to the bed. 

Until it starts to ring. 

Your hand reaches for it, then stops midair. 

Of course your first thought is Sylus, but this isn’t a hotel. What cameras or records would he even be hacking to know exactly where you’re sleeping? 

It could be the resident’s friends or family to ask if they are okay.

By the fourth ring, your curiosity beats out anxiety and you answer.

“...”

You don’t speak and try to breathe quietly, letting him set the tone. 

If it is him.

“Hello, kitten.”

You won’t give him the satisfaction of asking how he found you. 

Reconnaissance is table stakes among even mediocre Onychinus operatives.

“I hope you don't expect me to drive that car back to Linkon.”

He doesn’t miss a beat before answering.

“It's yours. Do with it what you wish.”

“What? You're insane.”

“Unhappy with my form of payment?”

You can only snort softly. 

So that was his game. 

You refused the payment in the form of a check. Now he’d forced a ‘payment’ you couldn’t refuse. 

Unless you wanted to abandon your mission with Xavier. 

Clever. 

Infuriating. 

He takes a deep breath before speaking again.

“Do you want me to punish you?” His voice is rough and low.

“What?” 

“I said, do you want me to punish you?” He punctuates each word, pausing between them.

Your brain short-circuits.

“Isn’t that why you’re acting out?”

“...No?” A flush dusts the tops of your cheekbones at his evaluation of your behavior. 

“Then what’s this about?”

When you don’t answer, he offers his own explanation.

“All these theatrics...because I won't fuck you?”

A searing heat crawls over your body and face - embarrassment, yes, but also desire. Hearing him speak like that is...

“No.” Your voice is high pitched and reedy. 

Unconvincing. 

For all of your bravado tricking him, stealing the car and stabbing the desk, you feel microscopic underneath the lens of his attention. 

“Really?” He asks, voice low and drawling, “because you seemed pretty put out over it. You even complained to your colleague about it. Twice.”

You cough to clear your throat. 

“I was high on Prolux,” you defend, “delusional.” 

“Prolux only disinhibits.”

“Well then, why don't you take it the next time we're together?”

“I don't need Prolux or any drug to tell you what I want.”

“And what is that?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Right now…” He pauses and you swallow, hanging on his every word, “I want you desperate and coming on my tongue. Crying for me, begging for my cock.”

Holy fuck. 

“You should've just asked,” he continues even keeled and apparently unaffected, “I can take care of you.”

Your hackles raise, slightly. 

“I can take care of myself.” The double entendre only occurs to you after you say it.

“Is that so?” His voice is impossibly sultry, “Let me hear you.” You can only imagine his Aether Core eye glowing red on the other side of the phone. Heat pools in you but you refuse to let him win.

“...” No witty rejoinder comes to you but a strained exhale communicates your intent sufficiently.

“I’m confused, kitten. Before you only wanted the sugar baby duties, but now… you refuse them,” he sounds almost bored by the topic meanwhile you have to take a deep breath to calm down, “but, I think you’ll find phone sex is explicitly guaranteed in the contract you signed.”

You’re audibly breathing more heavily.

“Touch yourself.”

Saliva pools under your tongue at the command and you swallow it back. 

“Sylus.” Your tone is meant to be warning but comes out more pleading than scolding. 

“So shy,” he drawls and your core feels molten hot as desire builds, “fine, then I’ll start. I’m hard just thinking about you, wet and needy, alone in your room.”

Frustration starts to build and you slip a hand underneath the hem of your panties. He laughs, low, when an involuntary, breathy moan crackles over the old phone.

“Good girl,” he groans, “see? I know what you need.”

A small whine breaks from you as you circle your own clit.

“Are you wet?” He asks.

“No.” It’s a lie and you’re sure he knows it. You’re soaked. And it's only made worse by listening to his breathy grunts and the rustle of fabric on the other side of the phone.

“You will be.”

“What are you doing?” You ask, half indignant, half desperate. 

He huffs. 

“I’m picturing you in that red dress at the ranch, little temptress, and I’ve got my hands wrapped around myself imagining how soft your hands would feel.”

Goddamn. 

Life is not fair. Shame is rapidly shedding from your consciousness as lust overtakes sanity.

“How many fingers are inside of you?” He asks. 

How did he know?

“Two.” 

“Hmmm. You’ll need more than that to take me,” his breath is ragged and velvety on the other side of the line, “add another finger for me.”

Wordlessly you do and moan softly with the fullness, heart racing. Heat and pressure build and his ragged breathing is driving you insane. 

Knock, knock.

“Is that you?” You ask, suddenly panicking.

“Hmmm?”

“At the door? Are you here?” 

“Don’t you dare stop touching yourself.”

You whine, slightly desperate.

“Careful kitten, he’s going to think you’re a damsel in distress and break in. Answer him.”

“Yes?” You call out.

“Everything okay?” It’s Xavier.

“Answer him,” Sylus orders.

“Y-yes!”

“I’m going to go get some dinner, do you want to come?”

“Don’t you dare stop. I know you need to come.” Sylus commands

“No! Thank you!”

“Okay, just let me know if you change your mind.” 

Xavier’s light footsteps carry him down the hallway and you sigh in relief.

“What are you wearing?” Sylus asks.

“What are you wearing?” You repeat back.

“Want to picture me? Fine, I’m at my desk, fresh out of a meeting. I have another in - ah” his breathy grunt is enough to push you to the edge “- five minutes but you’ve got me about to make a mess on myself with your pretty little sounds."

“Glasses?”

“Yes.”

“Mmmm.”

You are going to regret this later. 

He will definitely remember that. And use it against you.

The picture of him jerking off at his desk - the one scarred by your dagger - in a suit and glasses is divine.

“I remember your fantasies, the first time we met. You pictured me in the shower.”

Your face burns but lust overrides the shame.

“Yes-”

“And, do you know when I do that, it’s you I picture now?”

“Fuck.”

The coil inside of your lower belly is tightening and tightening.

“Are you wet enough for me now?”

You can’t bring yourself to answer but the answer is yes. This is, probably, the hottest thing you have experienced in your entire life.

“If you were here right now, you'd already be full. Do you want that?”

“Mmmm.”

“Answer me.”

“Yes.” It’s hot and humiliating and when he laughs your climax hits you like a brick wall. 

Your vision whites out and when you come to you realize he's still talking. 

“... there are easier ways to get my attention.”

The phone is laying on the pillow next to your head as you catch your breath but his voice is still clear as a bell. 

“It's very cute of you to think you can rile me up like this. But the next time you want my attention, just ask.”

“I don't want it.”

“Really? Then why haven't you hung up yet?”

Click.

You drop the phone down to the receiver and unplug it. 

Damn incubus. 

Where did this leave you? 

With an obscenely expensive car, in the Arctic tundra with Xavier and crushing post-bliss clarity. 

Why had you reacted so explosively to the check? 

It wasn't really about sex at all. 

It was because Sylus had tricked you first. 

He'd gotten under your skin and into your soul enough to resonate with you. 

The boundary you'd told yourself no one could breach without your permission. The intimacy you'd told him money couldn't buy. 

And then he paid you accordingly. 

You were a temporary amusement for him. 

But to you he was now one of three men you’d ever resonated with: Caleb, Xavier and… Sylus. Your foster brother, your mission partner and… him.

How had you allowed this? 

The car rental clerk is unhelpful when you attempt to drop the car off.

“We can't accept this.”

“Why not?”

“Open the glovebox, please.”

When you open it, he withdraws paperwork that shows your name listed as the owner. 

He points to it and hands it back as if that were an explanation. 

“Alright,” you try again, “I'll sell it to you. How much cash do you have?”

He only gives you a blank expression and continues as if you hadn't made any kind of offer. 

“There are no trains to Linkon today or tomorrow due to a local holiday. If you want to leave you'll have to drive your car home mademoiselle.”

“Come on, I'll drive.” Xavier takes the keys from your hand and the deed to the car. 

Once you've pulled away from the lot he turns to face you. 

“I think I've been patient,” he starts, “want to tell me what this is all about?”

Despite nearly two full months to think of a good cover, you don't have an excuse Xavier will accept. Part of you considers telling him the truth, at least the partial truth. What if he already knows? You decide to go with a lie based on a grain of truth.

“I've taken on a part-time… bodyguard role.”

“Uh huh,” his eyes slide from you to the road and back again, “and…is that all there is to it?

You sigh heavily. 

“Not exactly.”

“Is it… sexual?”

“What makes you ask that?”

He only quirks an eyebrow and waits for you to answer. 

“No,” your cheeks color, “not exactly. It's things like accompanying him to parties, horseback riding, going to, uh, appointments. Things like that.”

“I see. Who is he?”

“I… can't say. Part of the agreement is that he's anonymous.”

“Right. And what exactly do you think he wants from you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're a young woman who specializes in hunting wanderers with a firearm nonfatal to humans. I don't think too many people target your profile for bodyguards.”

“Who can say? He's an eccentric billionaire.”

“Guess, then.”

You don't want to lie to Xavier but the truth is you aren't sure what Sylus wants with you. 

On the other hand you're ready for this interrogation to be over. 

You have another ten hours of driving and would prefer to switch so Xavier can sleep and you can drive in silence. 

“He said it's partly my metaflux detection.”

“Right… and what about the other parts?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you in danger?”

“No, I…” you take a deep breath and decide to be honest. It’s important to keep trust with your mission partner as much as possible, “I think he wants me to want him.”

“Why?”

“The thrill of the hunt I guess. Who knows? Rich people are weird.”

“And what do you want?”

“Nothing. I just wanted some extra income.”

“Hmm.”

“I'm sure he'll discard me as soon as I bore him.”

“Then you might as well milk him for all he's worth before then.”

You choke on the coffee you'd gotten at a gas station.

“What?” Xavier asks, “you can always quit if you change your mind, right?”

“Right.”

You couldn't but that wasn't what was bothering you. The problem was that you didn't want to quit. 

Silence settles between you for a good hour. 

It's tense and awkward. 

Xavier steals occasional glances at you like he expects you to come clean unprompted. 

Finally, he speaks again to reopen the topic. 

“I read Simone’s mission report.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow and your heart races. 

“There's only one person I know of with a red and black energy Evol.”

It's a good thing you aren't the one driving because your vision is constricting and it's getting hard to breathe. 

“You're seeing Sylus Qin, aren't you?”

You open and close your mouth several times. 

When Xavier takes his gaze off of the road to level them at you they're hard and cold. 

“Actually, don’t answer me,” he shakes his head, “it's better if I don't really know. He's beyond the Association’s reach anyway.”

You're stunned into silence. 

“I initially suspected you were selling protocores. I don't know if this is better or worse. I'm sure I don't need to tell you he doesn't need a bodyguard.”

Xavier pauses to let you respond to his accusations. No response comes out of your mouth. When you don't deny it, he takes it as confirmation. 

“I see,” his tone is somber, “it's too late for me to warn you about Onychinus but I'll stand by what I said. If you need help, I hope you'll feel comfortable asking me.”

“Thank you, Xavier.” 

As it turns out, you don't have another nine hours together. 

Xavier asks you to drop him off at the next train station to make his way back to Linkon alone. 

You're still a few hours drive away when you watch him walk onto the train platform. He doesn't look back at you after taking his luggage out of the car. 

You have the next couple of days off and decide not to go home. You plug in approximate coordinates for your destination and follow them. 

Sylus said he didn't go there often, after all. 

Chapter Text

The dusty drive greets you the same as it did the first time you came to the ranch. Driving up without Sylus, you can take in the estate’s beauty without censoring your reaction. Before you can even put the car into park, the butler is scuttling out of the front door. 

“Welcome! We were not expecting you, is Mr. Sylus joining us as well?”

“No, just me.”

“I see, shall I prepare his room as well?”

“Oh no, I'm not staying, just dropping by on the way home.”

“Why don’t you rest for the night here?”

“That’s very kind but I can't impose on you.”

“It's no imposition at all. In fact, the house is empty so often that it would be a favor to us.”

“I'm really just here to drop off the car.”

“I see,” he nods, “I can arrange transportation back to Linkon but I'm afraid not until the morning. Does Mademoiselle need to return earlier?”

“I…” you pause, hesitant, “what do you know about me?”

“I know only what Mr. Sylus has told us.”

“Do you know what I am to him?”

He looks a bit taken aback by your question but quickly schools his face into a placid mask.

“I could not presume to comment on his private affairs. Mademoiselle should ask him directly.”

You shouldn't care what Sylus says about you, how he explains your presence to the staff here. But you do.

“Please, tell me.”

He gives you a strange look, in turn probing and pitying. 

“Mr. Sylus asked that we treat you as a member of his family. Beyond that he shared a few details to make your time here more comfortable. That is all.”

You nod. 

The poor butler has been nothing but kind to you. 

He's undeserving of your surprise interrogation. 

You're still reeling from Xavier’s confrontation and agree to stay the night. 

Some fresh air might do you some good. 

The barn door is open when you walk down the hill. 

Making your way to the far stall, you look for your black beauty. You have no plans to ride him today but stand at the stall door anyway. The upper half is open and you can see the stall is empty. 

Outside in their turnout, the horses are grazing. It’s clear and broadly rectangular. Probably a few acres.

Far off, you spot the Akhal-Teke pawing at the ground and make your way towards him.

He freezes as you approach but you coax him forwards by showing an apple plucked from the property’s orchard. You have a bag full of treats to bribe him. His ears are pricked forward and he takes a cautious step towards you, neck held high. 

When you offer it to him, he gobbles it up greedily. For a moment it seems like he’ll let you touch him. When you raise a hand to pet his mane, he jerks his head backwards and wheels on you, sprinting away. 

From across the paddock, he looks back at you. 

Shyly at first, then greedily eyeing the bag of apples. 

You toss one in between the two of you and watch him amble over to chomp it.

He views you warily and you can only laugh. 

“It's okay. I get it.” 

He walks over and takes another apple directly from the bag. You don't even try to pet him this time, knowing he’ll run at any moment if you move suddenly.

“I don't want to be tamed either,” he tilts his head in question at you waiting for you to finish the thought, “no matter how much sugar he gives me.”

His big eyes look up at you as he chews and you wonder how much he can understand.  

He moves forwards and throws his mane backwards. 

"You run, but you keep coming back again and again..."

He whinnies as if offended by your observation. Like calls to like, Sylus had said. 

“Don't worry," you reassure him, "this can be our little secret.”

He seems like he'll allow you to pet him but when you take half a step, he bolts. 

Was this how Sylus felt with you? 

Picking up the still half-full bag, you follow the pony you'd ridden last week into the barn. 

“Hello, Yun.” 

He whickers and lowers his head, accepting pats before even asking for an apple. He lets you lead him to the tacking area.

You're so engrossed with the task that you don't register someone walking up behind you.

“Mistress?”

Startling, you turn to find a teenaged boy in the barn with you. 

"No." You answer.

"Sorry, Mistress?"

“No," you clear your throat to clarify, "I'm not your Mistress,” you turn back, fixing the saddle on the pony.

“Aren't you the lady of the manor?” He asks.

A shake of the head is your mute reply.

“But I was told this is the lady’s horse. The master had him trained so she could ride him safely.” 

“No. I'm just another one of his employees, like you.”

For all its truth, your statement hurts to say aloud.

“I see, I'm sorry Mistr- uh-”

You introduce yourself as does the boy but then you follow up with, 

“Sylus usually asks people to call me Mademoiselle. I don't know why…” desperate to turn the conversation away from yourself, you ask about him, “how long have you worked here? You look too young to be working.” 

“My family have worked here as stable hands for many generations. I was born on this land.”

He helps you with the saddle straps and bridle. 

“I see. And is he a good employer?”

“Oh, yes,” the boy pauses and steps back to take a long look at you, “how long have you worked for him?”

You think back and count.

“Just a few months, why?” 

“Ah, then you'll see soon. He's a very generous master.”

Master. 

The word makes your hackles raise. And yet, you’d willingly walked into this gilded cage.

“What do you mean?”

“I remember when the estate was nearly bankrupt. I was just a child, but the whole village was in a panic.”

“Why?”

“Well– I don't know everything, but when the old family went under, the whole village was going under with them. He bought the estate and kept every contract. My aunt says he saved half the town.”

You don't say anything but brush the pony’s coat and listen. 

“She runs the bakery in the village,” he continues, “Mr. Sylus orders from her as if he were throwing a banquet every week.” 

“And now he employs you when you should be in school?”

“I'm just home for the weekend to help my Pa.”

“I see.”

“But during the week,” his chest puffs and he beams with pride, “I'm at university. I got a partial scholarship but Mr. Sylus paid the rest.” 

Your heart squeezes and stomach twists. 

The stableboy misinterprets your facial expression and apologizes. 

“I've kept you too long rambling! Let me help you.”

He holds out an arm and you swing your leg onto Yun. The sweet pony is patiently waiting for you. 

“Not at all,” you shake your head, “thanks for your help and the company. It sounds like he’s been a wonderful steward for the property.”

“Yes, indeed! Have a nice ride!” 

Oh God. You are so unbelievably fucked. 

Despite riding around for two hours, you can't find the meadow and decide to head back. Once Yun is clean, dry and stabled for the night you head back to the manor house. 

Blessedly the driveway doesn't hold any new cars or bikes. In peace, you shower and dress in your own clothes. 

Well. 

The clothes Sylus had intended for you and hung in your closet. 

As opposed to stealing his clothes. 

When the butler knocks to ask you preferences for dinner, you ask to eat with the staff.

Wasn’t that the more honest option?

After all, you, too, were on his payroll.

He balks but eventually capitulates that the chef can host you in the kitchen for an omakase style dinner. 

He leads you, not to the warm wood and plaster kitchen you’d cooked breakfast in with Sylus, but to a stainless steel one in the basement. It’s aggressively professional, all clean lines and shining surfaces.

A woman in chef’s whites stands with a torch, searing a piece of fish. 

She doesn't turn around when the butler introduces you but makes a small noise of acknowledgement. 

It's only when the butler leaves that she faces you. Her black hair is scraped back into a twist, severe. Despite the unflattering uniform and hairstyle, her ethereal beauty shines through. Her features are soft and feminine. Her form is lithe and shapely, even in boxy clothing.

A lick of jealousy burns up your spine and you do your best to shove it down. Irrational, really, you chide yourself. What were you, a lovesick teenager?

“Sit,” she says, gesturing with a large knife to a counter seat.

You obey and watch her careful movements. The military precision with which she plates two dishes: yours and hers. 

Torched fish, roe, seaweed, and a curl of citrus. Very sophisticated for a rural ranch. 

“Eat,” she commands. You wonder if she speaks to Sylus like this. 

The first bite hits your palate and it’s delicious. You’ve eaten her cooking before but this is spectacular. 

“So,” she opens as she serves the plate in front of you, “you're Sylus’ girl. You set the staff alight with your visit earlier this month.”

You nearly choke on the bite.

“No,” you shake your head, “I’m just a guest here.”

It’s the best answer you can come up with. You may be many things - but his girl wasn’t one of them.

She takes a bite and chews slowly across from you with narrowed eyes.

“He doesn’t bring guests here.”

You’ve talked enough about Sylus for a lifetime and want to ask about her instead.

“That must get boring for you.”

She shrugs.

“I don’t have much of a choice.”

“How did you end up here?” You leave it open-ended to try and apply interrogation techniques to this clearly guarded woman.

She only shrugs again, taking another bite.

“Onychinus ties?” You guess.

She shakes her head, no, finishing her fish and starting on the next course.

“This is delicious.” You try flattery.

“Thank you.” Her tone is calm and matter of fact. She doesn’t expand on it.

You take a bite as the two of you continue your dance around each other. 

Maybe you should’ve accepted the butler’s offer to serve you alone in the dining room. Although some part of you feels like she’s pulling out all the stops to impress you as you sit across from her and you aren’t sure why.

Salt. Heat. Ocean. Anxiety.

She stands to start on the next course and you decide to try a different approach.

“How long have you worked here?”  

She sets on the next course, using tweezers and knives to put together another precise dish.

When she serves it, she finally speaks directly addressing your underlying concern.

“I’m not your competition,” she smiles tightly.

Your jaw opens slightly with a small scoff.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She gives a knowing look and her smile broadens. Wiping her hands on a towel, she pours two glasses of wine and sets one in front of you.

“I saw the look on your face when you walked in, I know what I look like.”

She takes a long sip of wine and your heart races, waiting for her to continue. She sighs heavily and places the glass down on the steel counter and looks up to make eye contact with you.

“I lost my career to a man who thought his genius meant he could touch whatever and whoever he wanted.”

Your stomach churns with the implication.

“I’m so sorry.” You answer. What else can you say?

She shrugs again.

“Don’t be. You didn’t know. Same old, sad story. I filed a complaint, and the industry blackballed me. Sylus offered me a job. How could I turn it down?”

“So… you had no connection to Onychinus?”

“No. But, hey, a check’s a check, am I right?”

You take a deep drink of the wine.

“Word to the wise?” she asks and you nod, “the staff talks. Even between his households.”

“Right. Thanks. I…” you pause unsure of what you want to ask her, “are you happy here?”

“Is this my performance review?” She quips.

No wonder he hired her, they’re cut from the same cloth. 

You only look at her and keep eating. 

“Yes. I’m happy. Even though the hours are weird sometimes. I get to cook what I want, have an unlimited budget, the latest tech and mostly no one bothers me. But maybe…” she smiles a small smile.

“Maybe?” You prompt.

“Maybe you can convince him to throw a dinner party or two.”

Amidst such a heavy conversation, the unexpectedly shy request makes you smile too. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” you promise.

“Cheers to that,” she holds out her glass and you clink yours against hers.

When the butler collects you, it’s late at night and you want to ask him for a tour of the manor but hold back. You’re curious but it’s probably the end of his shift. Still, he notices your curiosity as you pause at the paintings and statues that dot the hallway and grand staircase. 

Dignified men, women in ballgowns, classical figures, gods and goddesses, venetian seascapes, peasants rolling hay…

“Does Mademoiselle have an interest in art?”

“Not really,” you start, “but… are there any paintings of Sylus here?”

“No, there are not.”

“I’m surprised. He seems like the type to commission paintings of himself.”

“I’m afraid not. Although…” 

“Yes?” 

“There is a bust of him. Sent as a gift, I believe.”

“Can I– well, I mean, where is it?”

“It sits in the antechamber just outside of Mr. Sylus’ room.”

“I see.”

“Hmmm.”

“And…” you swallow but the wine and curiosity win out, “where exactly is his room?”

The butler stops walking two steps in front of you and turns around with a raised eyebrow.

He inclines his head and turns on his heels, walking down the long red velvet carpeted hallway.

The lighting on the second floor is soft in the evenings, lit with candle-style wall sconces. It’s warm and inviting. 

With each step away from the direction of ‘your’ room and towards his, your heart pounds. 

“Just so.” He gestures.

Finally the two of you arrive into an oval, doorless room that apparently abuts Sylus’ room. The entryway is an open arch and your partner in crime steps forwards and gestures for you to do the same.

And then, there it is. 

The bust is carved from white marble. It captures his hair and features perfectly, though his shoulders are a bit narrower than reality. 

There’s no knowing smirk on his face, instead it's set in a contemplative expression, mouth parted just enough to highlight the central downturn in his top lip.

His eyes look off into the distance and an aching longing pulls at you. 

Unlike the real Sylus who towers over you, this one sits on a stand that puts him just at eye-level. 

When you stare into the lifeless eyes, an uncanny sense of homesickness washes over you.

Bewilderingly, tears pool in your eyes and you miss whatever the butler just said.

“Sorry?” Your eyes stay on Sylus’ simulacra. 

“It’s a good likeness, is it not?”

“Yes,” you clear your throat and step pack, prying your eyes from his angelic face, “it is. Can you show me back to my room, please?

“Of course.”

He turns and walks away. You turn and indulge yourself with one, final lingering look imprinting his visage to your memory.

After a long, hot shower, you find yourself laying in your four poster bed unable to sleep. 

Your mind turns over the last couple of months relentlessly. 

What would it mean to choose Sylus? You could never have a normal life with him. 

He moved in the shadows. 

His life was always in danger and, by extension, yours would be too if you decided to be ‘Sylus’ girl’ after all. 

You can’t keep up the double life forever. 

Could you give up your life in Linkon? Give up order and lawfulness? Xavier? Your friends? Give up daylight and sunshine?

And, at the same time, it wasn't even the logistical or existential questions that dogged you. 

It was the one of your heart. 

What if you gave it to him only to have it returned to sender? 

Could you recover if Sylus tossed you aside when he inevitably got bored of your cat and mouse game? 

What would this time period of your life mean when the chapter closed? 

What memories would you look back on? 

You didn't even have a single picture of him. He could ruin your life then exit it like he never existed in the first place. 

Like it was all just a dream.

It’s this thought that leads your feet back to the art-filled antechamber outside of Sylus’ bedroom. 

You still have no phone or watch, both sitting on your counter in Linkon and have to take a candle with you like a Victorian ghost to light the way. 

It is probably meant to be decorative, but you find matches in the bedside drawer and make use of them. 

When in the country…

Eventually you find yourself standing nose-to-nose with the sculpture of Sylus again. 

It looks different in the candlelight, softer somehow, and you consider it for a long while. When the candle burns down and threatens to burn your fingers with wax, you finally pluck up the courage to try the doorknob to his room. 

Inside, it’s dark and your hand gropes the wall for a switch. 

When you finally find one and blow out the candle, you take in the room in front of you. It’s not like his modern, ornate room back in the N109 Zone. It’s clear that he hasn't done much to the primary suite to change it over from the prior owners. 

Velvet and brocaded curtains litter the space. A large fireplace sits, unlit on one side. There’s two walls of windows and you wonder if this is really the primary suite or if he chose it for the light that undoubtedly floods it in the daytime. 

With some relief, you note the bed is empty and made, confirmation that you are alone. 

But there’s one strange curtain that doesn’t reach to the floor. Nor does it match the windows you’ve seen from outside the house.

Your feet carry you underneath it and you pull the tassel hanging below it and the curtain parts. Nothing can prepare you for what lies beneath it. 

It’s a portrait of a woman who looks exactly like you. Except for a few key differences. Her eyes are slightly brighter, her hair is pure white and a strange mix of horns and a crown sits on her head. 

You stand, transfixed and stare at the portrait, unaware of the footsteps behind you.

“Do you like it?” His deep voice startles you and you jump, but you don’t turn to face Sylus.

“She looks just like me.”

“Do you think so?” He hums, deceptively casual, “it came with the house.”

You stand and stare, baffled. 

He makes no move to walk closer to you but stays in the threshold. 

When you finally turn around, he’s running a palm over the center of his chest, seemingly lost in thought. 

You turn back to the painting and continue to stare, until he walks up behind you and pulls the tassel, closing the curtains over the mysterious portrait. 

You don’t turn to face him, even as he steps directly behind you and brushes your hair over one shoulder. 

“I should revise my statement,” he says, “you are a kitten with no survival instincts.”

“Not a mouse?”

“No. Mice don’t willingly walk into traps.”

This earns him a glare over your shoulder.

He steps around and stays your hand when it moves up to pull the tassel a third time to re-reveal the painting.

“Did you enjoy your joyride?” He asks.

Your eyes lower to his hand, holding yours mid-air, arm outstretched between you.

“Well, I enjoyed stealing from you.” 

“You can’t steal from me.”

You quirk an eyebrow.

“Don’t be a sore loser Sylus. Not when you win almost every one of these games.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head as if you’re missing something.

“You can’t steal from me. Not when I’d happily give it all to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

This is so typical of Sylus. 

Twisting your words with his honeyed voice. 

Confusing everything. 

But you’ve had enough confusion. 

“What am I to you?”

“I believe we have about thirty pages of legalese defining it.”

“For the next nine months.”

His eyes glitter with mischief.

“Did you want to explore something more long term?” 

“I'm serious. What do you want from me?”

“What are you willing to give me?” His voice is teasing.

“Sylus.” Yours, pleading.

His gaze finally softens and he drops your hand, taking two long steps backwards. 

Away from you. 

“I like having you in my life,” his expression is solemn and he inclines his head, “in whatever capacity you wish.”

You stare into his ruby eyes and he holds your gaze unflinchingly. Your stomach twists and heart squeezes as you process his words.

He's as still as his marble bust under your scrutiny. 

For a brief moment your eyes flit to the door. To your feet. Back to Sylus.

Two paths diverge before you. 

His arms hang, relaxed, at his sides. Feet, rooted to the spot. He makes no movement to invite or exile.

Before you can lose your courage, you close the distance in three strides, standing on your tiptoes to come eye to eye with him as you had been with the bust, looking between his vibrant, living eyes.

And, for the first time – not because of a contract, cover, dream or drug – you lean forwards and press your lips to his. 

Chapter Text

Sylus needs no further encouragement. 

The spell of his paralysis breaks under your lips and his arms wind around you fast and sure. One enormous hand cradles the back of your skull and the other hand grips your waist, pulling you closer to him and supporting your weight as you push as high as possible onto your tip toes to reach his mouth.

The overwhelming need to be as close to him as possible crashes over you and, like a dam breaking, you’re finding his mouth again and again and again.

It’s relentless and hungry and novel. 

He kisses you like a damned man offered one chance at salvation. 

Teeth clack and lips bruise under the force from both of you.

His face isn’t cold marble under your hands but warm and languid, his jaw opening against yours, tongue sliding into your mouth. 

When you gasp against him, he swallows your air like he’s starved of oxygen. 

Your hands slide up his face into his hair and he lifts your waist higher up against him.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist and he takes on your weight completely. His hand at your waist moves to grip the back of your hip and anchors you just enough to grind against him in his tight hold. 

But then he pulls back from you, just enough to take in your wet, bitten lips and look into your damp eyes. 

When you try to lean forwards again to claim his mouth, his hand grips your hair at the roots of your nape and he pauses your forward movement.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

You’re desperate to chase the heat of him but he won’t relent until you answer. 

His face is just as wrecked as yours: ears pink, forehead shining with sweat, lips swollen and damp with your combined spit. 

Your brows furrow and you grind against him. 

He doesn’t have any leverage to prevent your hips from rolling and grunts brokenly with the friction. Even through the thick of his pants you can feel him growing harder against you. 

It’s enough to embolden you to unwrap your legs from him and slide your weight down his body, onto your own feet. 

You can't explain but you can show him.

His face drops as you take a step backwards and he looks drunk with desperation and desire when you unwind his fingers from your hair. 

Keeping eye contact you walk backwards to his bed and pull your nightgown over your head. 

His jaw drops open at your form in front of him. The reaction is gratifying when his head drops backwards after drinking in the sight of your body. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. When he lifts his head back up you can see a hand covering his Aether Core eye, as he fights the activation. 

“Show me,” you dare, walking around to the bed to crawl to the center and sit on your heels bared before him but he pauses again, “second thoughts?” you ask, starting to feel a flush of embarrassment crawl from your chest to the tips of your ears. 

Had you entirely misread this situation?

He groans again but stays rooted to the spot. 

Finally, he pulls his hand from his right eye, and it’s clear that he’s successfully tamped down the Aether Core.

“Tell me what you want, kitten,” he grinds it out.

“I think it’s pretty obvious.”

He quirks an eyebrow in a clear challenge.

You sigh and roll your eyes, all pretense of a seductive pose forgotten as irritation takes hold.

“Are you really going to make me beg?” You pout and in return he smiles. 

He takes one step towards you. 

Then another.

“Beg me,” he commands, voice deep and rough. Your breath catches in your throat. 

He’s walking, ever so slowly to the edge of the bed, and you shift into a position on all fours. 

Pressing your hips backwards and into the air away from him, you look up at him, your chin touching the covers and eyes looking up at him from under your eyelashes. 

Stretching out before him like the kitten he claims you to be.

“Please fuck me, Sylus.” It’s meant to be teasing but comes out as a genuine whine. 

The air is punched out of his lungs and he swears something incomprehensible under his breath before crouching to be eye-level with you at the edge of the bed. 

“No.” He answers.

“No?” You’re incredulous. 

“No,” he grips you by the shoulders and flips you to your back, stretching out over you, “I won’t fuck you tonight.”

His lithe form hovers over you, pinning your wrists over your head and kissing you deeply. 

Confusion and desire swirl within you as you struggle slightly against him, seeking more contact. 

“I’m going,” he kisses one eyelid, “to make you come,” then the other, “harder than you have in your entire life,” your cheek, “then I’ll make you mine in every way that one human can claim another,” the other cheek, “and when you think your body can’t take anymore. Then,” he pauses, considering, “and only then, will I fuck you.”

The pure arrogance of it would be astounding. 

If you didn’t have full faith in him to back up his promise.

He leans forwards and captures your mouth, the fabric of his shirt brushing against your bare chest.

“But first,” he kisses down your jawline, sucking on your throat, “you have to ask nicely. Do you want it, kitten?”

“Yes,” you’re panting, “I want it, I want you, Sylus.”

“See now, was that so hard?” He teases.

He’s smirking and you’re determined to wipe the smug expression off his face.

“Clothes,” you pull away for a breath, “off.” 

He releases your hands and leans his weight on one forearm next to your head. 

“Won’t you help me?” He asks, all innocence.

As soon as he asks, you bring both hands to the top button on his shirt, struggling to grip and unclasp it.

“Your hands are shaking.” 

“Just–” you grip either side of his shirt and yank hard enough that the buttons snap off, “come here.”

Why were men’s shirts so unnecessarily complicated?

He can’t stop the laugh that breaks out of him at your eagerness. 

“Yes, my queen.” 

He helps you pull it off the rest of the way from his arms and you gasp at the sight over you. 

His body should be documented in a larger-than-life statue and put up in Linkon Museum. Or maybe in city hall. To keep such beauty to yourself is undoubtedly a crime of the highest offense. 

Broad shoulders, muscular arms, undulating shoulders and cut abs narrow down into the V of hips. 

Only a belt, a button and a zipper now stand between you and divinity.

“Pants,” you gasp between hot kisses, “off. Now.” 

Sylus kneels back between your legs and undoes the belt, pulling it out smoothly from the loops but he makes no move to remove the slacks, only moves downwards on the bed.

He kisses your clavicle, sucking lightly. And then he’s hovering over your breasts, nipples hard and aching. 

When he looks up at you as if to ask for permission you nod, moving your hands over his shoulders and into his hair.

He takes one into his mouth and you throw your head back into the pillow, groaning at the sensation of his rough, wet tongue licking over you. He nips at you lightly with his teeth, then harder and you squeak in protest.

“No biting there.”

He’s still bearing his own weight on his left forearm and his right hand squeezes your other breast, thumb brushing over the peak. 

He adjusts his head up slightly to watch your expression and you grab his free hand and push it down. He huffs a smile against your skin and takes the hint.

Too slowly, he traces his middle and ring finger down your ribs, your belly button, around your hip and finally comes to cup your sex over cloth.

“Tell me to stop.” 

“No.”

He leans back over your mouth and kisses you as he dips one finger beneath your underwear. When he feels how slick you already are he moans into your mouth, seemingly warring with himself.

“Do you want it?” He is practically purring against your jaw, burying his head in the crook of your neck.

“Yes. Sylus. I want you.”

You cant your hips upwards and his finger sinks further into you, just barely breaching you for the very first time and he swears under his breath. 

“Fuck.” it’s a rough grunt, he inhales raggedly, “let me taste you. Please.”

You nod and swallow. 

The earlier bravado you had is gone and your heart races as he crawls down your body. It’s not as agonizingly slow as your dream. 

He kisses above your heart, your solar plexus, your navel, and finally settles himself between your legs. 

He pulls your thighs against his shoulders and breathes, hot and humid against you. He groans and kisses the crease at your hips.

“How much do you like these?” He asks, tugging at the elastic hem of your panties. 

Words fail you. 

When you can only give a half-shrug and shake of the head, he snorts and dissolves them off of you with the familiar tingle of his red-black mist. 

Well, it seems your subconscious has gotten some things right, but you have no time to consider the accuracy of your wet dreams when his mouth descends on you. 

Your hands find his hair and he leans into the grip of your palms, encouraging. He licks experimentally with a broad tongue first. Then, with more concentrated muscle against your clit.

“Which do you like more?” His voice is pure gravel, “this?” he licks languidly and pulses his tongue against your bud, “or this?” his tongue swipes over you in concentrated licks with more pressure.

Your brain short circuits and words fail again.

“This?” his tongue is wide and pulsing, “or this?” the pressure and speed increase.

He pauses and looks up at you in question, curling one brow as if to say well?

“I –” you gasp as he licks you again.

You can’t come up with a coherent sentence when the leader of Onychinus is in between your legs trying to coax an orgasm out of you. 

“Then I’ll have to check for myself,” he answers, and slips two fingers inside of you. 

His mouth descends over you again, licking, pulsing, sucking and pressing against you. 

When his fingers hit that sensitive spot on your anterior wall, you grunt and squirm.

His mouth licks soothingly against you, and then his fingers and tongue brush corresponding spots at the same moment and you can feel yourself gushing before an involuntary moan pulls out of your throat.

He does it again and feels more of your arousal gush onto his fingers, muscles clamping on his digits. 

He smiles against you before pulling away to address your pussy directly.

“Very clear, little kitten, thank you.” He nods to your core in gratitude for the direct feedback. 

He gives you a chiding glare before resuming his work on you. You can’t summon the will to care about his teasing when he builds you closer and closer to a simultaneous internal and external full-body orgasm for the first time in your life. 

Heat builds from your core into your hips and back and legs. It feels like you can barely breathe with the intensity of it. You're either going to die or come or maybe both. 

“Sylus.” 

He doesn’t answer but shifts his weight onto the forearm between your legs and reaches his free hand up to your breasts. 

The added stimulation is too much and you swat him away just to hear him chuckle against you. He takes the feedback and circles his arm, instead, around your back pulling you further onto him. 

The sensation builds and builds until it’s crashing over you and you cry out at the feeling but he doesn’t stop, even when you pull at his hair. 

“You couldn’t come again?” He asks, disbelieving, still pumping his fingers in and out of you.

“I–” your voice is strained, “I don’t know.”

“Hmmm,” he resumes his work and you can only close your eyes and let the pleasure wash over you as he pushes you with suspicious skill back over the edge again in quick succession. 

It’s only when it starts to become painful and you squirm away from him entirely that he relents, biting your hipbone and licking over it.

He crawls back up your body and kisses you. The taste of you mixes with his own heady scent and a primal satisfaction floods you in marking him with your own scent. 

Well-honed hunter instincts help you take him by surprise and flip Sylus when he tries to settle over you too quickly.

“Uh-uh,” you shake your head and smile, “my turn.”

He smirks and folds his arms behind his head, laying back on the bed. 

He’s pretending to be entirely at ease but you aren't fooled. There's a visible flutter of muscles that clench and unclench in anticipation even as he pretends to be relaxed. 

With a devilish grin of your own, you slowly unbutton and unzip his pants, sliding them off of his muscled legs with ease. 

As much as possible, you school your face into indifference at the sight of him, desperate not to look as intimidated as you feel.

More accurately, at the size of him. Even underneath his boxer briefs you can see the length and girth is not something you’ll be able to take into your mouth. 

Not completely, at least. You stare for a moment too long.

“Something to say?” He asks.

You settle comfortably between his powerful thighs and watch his grinning face over you. 

“Took you for more of a boxer guy,” you cough and try to channel nonchalance. He’s clearly not fooled by your attempted misdirection.

As slowly as you can stand it, you drop featherlight kisses to his chest, his stomach, his hips, his legs. 

Everywhere but where he really wants you. 

The length of him is straining against his boxer briefs and you pull the elastic down, just enough to press a kiss against his skin.

Soft, silver-white hair, neatly trimmed against his pelvis tickles your nose. 

Your eyes flit up to him but he keeps the same, soft smile as he watches you, relaxed and leaning back on his folded arms. 

With a smile of your own, you pull the last remaining barrier between you down and off of his legs, letting his length spring back up against his abs. It’s strained and pink at the tip, precum beading at the head. 

His face is all male pride as you take in the sight of him. With a swallow, you sit on your knees between his thighs and lean down. Without breaking eye contact, you take him as far as you can into your mouth, relaxing your throat around him. 

It takes everything in you not to smirk in triumph when his eyes roll back and his abs twitch as you swirl your tongue around his frenulum.

Grasping what you can’t take into your mouth with both hands, you watch his expressions as you move up and down over him, twisting ever so slightly. 

Pulling off entirely, you lick against the slit as his precum beads under your attention, lapping at it eagerly. Salty, bitter and entirely Sylus. The thrill of being allowed to know him this intimately jolts through you. To have the veil of his public persona pulled back to you and only you. The sanctity of the moment strikes you.

He’s smiling again and that just won’t do so, without warning, you take him fully into your mouth, relaxing your throat and forcing him past your gag reflex. 

Your eyes water with the effort but it’s worth it when he moans and whimpers above you. His hips stutter underneath you, trying desperately not to fuck up into your mouth and you hold both of his hips steady with your hands as you take as much of him in as possible. 

You’re just about able to get your nose flush with his pelvis, if not your lips. 

And, considering the circumstances, that feels like a victory.

Hollowing out your mouth as you pull away you try and coat him in as much thick spit as possible. 

He seems to like extra pressure against the underside on outward strokes so you use your tongue to comply and are compensated with breathy moans of your own name gracing his lips. 

The sights and sounds of his pleasure have you reeling.

Giving oral has never been a favorite of yours but seeing Sylus come undone from your mouth alone has you high on power. You’re dripping arousal down your thighs, feeling his cockhead hit then push past the back of your throat. 

His thighs start to shake and squeeze you and you’re prepared to try and swallow every last drop of his bitter, hot spend but he pulls you off with a soft pop before you can. 

“I need you.” It's a plea and a command all in one. 

He flips the two of you and once again you’re on your back underneath him. His hands cup your jaws lovingly and he kisses you deeply. 

He whispers your name like a prayer, kissing down your jaw. His cock is heavy against your core and you try to shuffle underneath him to catch it against you. 

“Sylus…” 

“Hmm?” He asks from the crook of your neck. 

Wrapping your ankles around his thighs you tug his head back with your hands in his hair and nod once, wordlessly conveying your intent.

He looks between your eyes. Once, twice, before guiding himself against you, pausing at your entrance. He coats himself in your essence, only pausing when you jerk at the shock of pressure on your oversensitive clit.

He stills, his eyes asking a silent question, you nod in reassurance and shift your hips back towards him.

“Just sensitive,” you explain and he nods understandingly, “I want you inside of me, please.” 

He pushes into you, slowly. 

There’s no pain, no stretch, despite his size. You’re more turned on than you probably ever have in your life and think you could take his fist at this point. 

Still, your brow furrows a bit at the depth of him. 

It’s intense but not unpleasant.

He exhales shakily as he seats himself inside of you. 

He comes down onto both forearms and kisses you softly. 

Sylus is sweet and sure, not dominating like some part of you had imagined. 

His attentive care makes your heart twist and you know without any doubt that the dangerous seeds of feelings you have for him have taken up permanent roots now. 

It’s only when your brow smoothes out and you relax that he begins to rock gently into you. 

You’re almost unbearably sensitive and can only focus on the feeling of his body moving against yours. It’s almost perfect and you wish this moment could last forever. 

But, you also want more. And less. And all of Sylus.

He’s watching your face carefully, reading meaning in every muscle twitch, every choked gasp, every response you give to him and storing it away. 

Your hands, forgotten and gripping the bedsheets at your sides pull him down closer to you. It feels impossible to get as close to him as you want to be and you relish in the feeling of his sweat mixing in with yours as his body glides against yours. 

He pushes off of his forearms, a bit and the new angle makes your back arch off the mattress. He’s given you just enough respite that the renewed friction is heavenly as he drags along your swollen g spot. 

Lowering just one elbow but keeping his hips snapping into you, he kisses you deeply, open mouthed and you whine into him - desperate for release. 

He gives it to you, just the way you need and then you’re mewling into his mouth, panting and coming undone for a third time under his careful touch.

It's only when the aftershocks of your orgasm wane that you realize it's not only sweat dripping onto you. Two errant tears run down his face and you wipe them away tenderly with your thumbs, kissing him as his thrusts become harder, more erratic. 

His breath is harder now, panting. Seeing you come undone under him has clearly moved him. For the first time, he’s not in control of the situation and it’s addicting. 

How could you still be expected to be a productive member of society after this? This is all you want to do for the rest of your life. 

“Where?” He gasps out. 

“Inside.”

Despite your permission, he still tries to pull out but you hook your legs around his hips. It’s everything you want to feel him come inside of you and you’ll figure out the rest later. 

And then his mouth drops open above you, contorted in a silent moan. His eyes are screwed shut even as sweat drips off of his forehead onto your chest and he’s coming hard and hot inside of you. 

The sight is one you immediately commit to memory - sacred and divine as his climax washes over him. Belatedly you try to time your muscles to pulse around his thrusts and continue even when he stills inside of you.

He hangs his head over your chest as he pants to catch his breath and hides his face against your chest. You brush his damp hair away from his forehead and try to get him to look at you. After several seconds he pushes up to look properly at you and pecks you, lightly, on the lips. 

Summoning a small towel with his Evol, he gently slides it underneath you as he pulls out and his come seeps out. 

It’s sticky and satisfying to be coated in him. 

He rolls to his side and the two of you stare at each other, entwined, smiling like you’re the only two people who know the world’s most precious secret. 

And maybe you are.

Chapter Text

You leave Sylus, sleeping alone in his room. You need space. 

And a real shower.

Still, your eyes linger on his form before stepping into the hallway. At some point in the night he’d discarded the covers. Or maybe you’d stolen them.

Either way, he is splayed out before you as if on display.

You commit everything to your memory. 

The texture of his lips, the skin on his chest as it rises and falls, the delicate curl of silver hair on his legs. You inhale deeply - cedar, smoke, yes, but something more animalic lingered in the warmth of his sheets. 

The thrill of the chase is over. 

There is a nonzero chance that you’d never see him like this, or at all, ever again. He could send you away, cancel the contract and leave you with just the memory of him.

The door closes with a soft click and you return down the hall to your room. You’re sore, filthy and absolutely debauched. 

After that first set of touches, the two of you had been insatiable for each other. 

The only attempt at showering had ended with him pushing you up against the tiled wall, legs wrapped around his waist as he pumped into you mercilessly. 

The corners of your mouth curl up and butterflies flutter at just the thought. 

Oh God. 

He has ruined you forever. 

How can any man compare? 

Sylus would be a deep, jagged, beautiful scar on your soul for the rest of your life. 

He was like the beautiful sparkling crystal found at the center of a savagely cracked open geode. 

You were the rock in this metaphor, obviously. He had taken a nail to your outsides and driven a wedge into your soul with a single hammer strike. 

The shower is as hot as you can stand it, steaming and scrubbing the night before off of you. 

He probably did this every few months. Likely paid the staff to speak about him the way they did to you. How many girls had they helped him bag over the years? Had you lasted longer than the average girl? Or were you an easy one to crack? Just three months into a twelve month contract and you’d given in.

He played you. It was clear and simple in the unforgiving light of day. 

Next, the agency would call and tell you to leave the property. 

The butler would pack your bags and you’d be gone, the next girl ordered like room service.

So what?

You had good sex and got paid for it, too.

…

That stung more than soothed.

Whatever.

It’s not like you were in love with him.

Rough hands scrub your scalp once, twice, thrice before leaving the shower and brushing it out. You yank through knots with more than you should repeating it like a mantra over and over again.

You are not in love.

Sylus is someone you barely know. He’s a shadow of a man. A villain, really, in the story of your life.

Get a grip. 

You are a hunter.

A deal had been struck.

So what if it was more than a few hours of work? It had also been far more than the two months of pay you’d first agreed to months ago. 

If only you could purge the memory of Sylus from your brain when you left today. 

At least you have your suitcase from your trip to the Arctic. 

Your skirt-style uniform is clean enough to wear for your last exit from the ranch. 

It rolls, creaking down the hallway, packed with only the items you’d brought. Of course you’d need to call a taxi once you got to the driveway. You’re halfway down the stairs when you hear heavy footsteps on the galleried landing overlooking the grand staircase.

“...Kitten?”

With a cringe you pause, feet straddling two steps. 

“I was just going.”

Slower than you need to, you turn around to see him. His hair is still wet from his own shower, a grey sweater pulled on and looking better than any simple garment should. His glasses sit low on his nose. Sylus off-duty, you think bitterly.

“That bad, huh?” His voice carries down.

You can only swallow and resume your path down the stairs but he follows after you. 

“You only have yourself to blame,” he says and your neck and ears burn even redder with shame, “you should’ve given me more feedback.”

What on earth is he talking about?

“Absolutely gutting. Diabolical even. Stay for breakfast, at least.”

“Why?” you turn on him, “so I can give you tips on how to improve for the next girl?”

A strained laughter spills out of him. He appears at your side and takes the suitcase out of your hands, carrying it to the foyer. He sets it down by the front door and looks up at you.

“You’re a jealous kitten, you know,” he examines his hands before asking, “why don’t you eat something before you hit the road?”

Your treacherous stomach chooses the ultimate comedic timing to grumble.

“Your body agrees with me,” he smiles, “you just need this,” he taps his own temple, “to catch up.”

“Hmmph.”

Your head was starting to hurt from a lack of caffeine. 

One coffee. 

That was it.

He walks towards the original kitchen of the house and, like a fool, you follow. 

Sylus doesn’t pause until you speak again.

“What should I get tested for, by the way?” You ask, voice all acid.

“Tested?” He asks, slowing his pace without turning around.

“We didn’t use a condom.”

A choking snort bursts from his chest before he clears his throat. Coughs once, twice, before continuing down the hallway. 

“Ouch, kitten. You really know how to wound a man.”

“...”

Silence hangs between you as you catch up to him. Glaring from underneath your eyelashes as you wait for a serious answer.

“That,” he shakes his head, “won’t be a problem. From my end, at least.”

You have to think about it for a moment.

“You…aren’t sleeping with anyone else?”

“No,” he pauses and glances back at you, “...are you? Is this your way of telling me I need to get tested?”

You scoff in offense.

“Now, now,” he chides, “you don’t get to be offended. Not when you’re the one who asked first.”

He flicks your forehead before holding the door open to the kitchen and you squeeze past him, “trying to sneak out without saying goodbye, accusing me of sleeping around. Very bad morning after etiquette.”

Heat pricks at your neck and you feel… appropriately chastened. 

Not quite mortified but nearly. 

What was it about this man that made you feel and act like a teenager?

“Why don’t you help me make your famous pancakes?” He asks, “and then, you can just tell me what’s on your mind.”

Somehow you feel shy. 

As if the man before you hadn’t made you come almost a dozen times last night. In various positions. In the bed. In the shower. On the floor. With his fingers, his tongue, his cock and, even at one point, somehow, with his nose…

“If you think any harder, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

You can’t help the pout of your lips and glare that sets in on your brows.

“This is my real life, Sylus.”

“Yes.”

There’s no mocking in his tone. No sentiment of the obvious. Only affirmation.

He’s around the opposite side of the table, sifting pancake mix and reading the directions, waiting for you to continue. 

Distantly, you realize he’d stocked pancake mix since your last visit. Before, that hadn’t been in the kitchen. You’d looked.

“I– don’t,” you take a deep breath and decide you can be an adult, too, “I don’t know how to do this. But– I don’t want to be your sugar baby.”

His eyes harden.

“I see,” his tone is serious. His jaw clenches. He thinks you’re ending things.

“No,” you clarify, hands out in emphasis, “not like that. I don’t want to be paid for sex. Especially not…” Your voice trails off and you struggle to finish the thought.

“Not…?” He prompts.

You lick your lips and look away, fiddling with a long cuticle on your thumb. 

Anything other than making eye contact with his unrelenting red eyes.

You take another deep breath and try to channel the courage you’d felt last night. 

“Especially not sex that I want to have.”

His lips quirk into a smirk.

“I see.” He repeats, this time drawing it out in an almost sing-song voice.

“Don’t tease me.” You complain.

“Never.” 

He comes around the island and places his hands loosely on the sides of your hips. 

“So…” he runs them up and down your sides, settling at your waist, “... best sex of your life or…” he tilts his head and looks into your eyes, “are you still lying to both of us?”

“Wow, and humble too.” You retort, pinching his side and dodging under his arms when he flinches. 

You escape to the other side of the island near the double sinks. But the agile move costs you and your hand moves towards your lower stomach.

“Cramping?” He asks, concern fogging his features.

You shake your head.

“Just a bit sore.”

“I’m sorry,” he answers earnestly and the dormant butterflies in your stomach flutter to life.

“Don’t be,” your reply comes quickly. 

Damn he looks good in that V-neck sweater. 

You busy yourself with the espresso machine in the corner, grateful that it’s already set up with a grinder and portafilter ready for use. 

Pulling a double shot, then another, you offer one to Sylus and knock the first back yourself. 

Much better. 

The irritation that keeps your shoulders high and your jaw clenched eases a bit with the soothing drug.

He declines the double shot and you set it aside. 

You watch him, busy with the pancake batter. 

He looks so good in that sweater and his glasses. 

But then that odd feeling between your hips surfaces again and your brow furrows. You want to touch him but that shy feeling keeps your hands at your sides. 

When he turns he leans in to check your expression, his right eye flares slightly before fading.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, pressing his inhumanly hot palm against the skin between your hips. Your shirt slips up and his palm is against your bare skin. 

Lust burns through you, emanating from where he touched you. 

You only swallow and shake your head back and forth lightly.

“No…” he considers your expression, “you don’t look like you’re hurt, kitten. It’s more like…” 

He leans down and you can smell the mint of his toothpaste.

Your throat opens up to him and his hot, wet lips are pressing against yours. 

Desire surges within you and something else, too, your body and soul feel more at ease as you wrap your arms around his waist. 

In seconds, he lifts you and deposits you on the counter, never breaking the kiss even as he steps between your legs. 

His hands cup your face and he kisses you lovingly.

Wait.

Not lovingly. 

You are not in love. And neither is he.

He kisses you… something like sweetly or adoringly… 

And while you’re busy thinking of the right word for it, you don’t notice his hands slipping up the outsides of your thighs, under your skirt until they tug the hem of your panties. 

“Sylus!” You squeak, “what are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He asks, “I’m hungry.” He’s lowered himself to his knees on the hard stone kitchen floor and grips you behind your knees, yanking you forwards, “I want to eat my breakfast.”

He only laughs at your expression and when he does, you can feel his breath against you.

“Sylus!” You try again, more urgent this time, “the staff—”

“Shhh,” he kisses your knee, licks the inside of your thigh, “it’s Sunday.”

And then any coherent thoughts you had are cut off by the feeling of his mouth on you, licking into your sex. Right away, you’re groaning, hands bracing, palms down on the countertop behind you as you tilt your hips slightly up to meet his face. He was already good last night, but the man was a quick study. 

When you’re twitching and pulling his hair away from you, he stands and kisses you deeply. Nonchalantly, he takes up his place by the griddle and pours the batter in neat rounds. It had been, it seemed, plenty of time for the stove to warm up.

“What about…?” You walk up behind him and slide your hands over the front of his hips.

“Let’s get some food in you first.” He answers and you nod. It doesn’t feel quite like a rejection but it does leave you slightly uncertain.

But then he turns around and swipes a dollop of batter on your nose and you have to retaliate. The two of you swipe, pinch, poke and tickle in a dance that would be better suited to an extraordinarily spry old married couple. Until you find yourself cleaning off his features with a damp kitchen towel and he does the same for you.

“Am I satisfactory?” He asks as you pat him dry. 

Turning his face this way and that, you’re struck again by his beauty. You don’t want to admit that his face is the pinnacle of human creation so instead you hum an affirmative and enjoy the flood of hormones that comes with gazing into his own blown pupils.

With only a few rounds of pancakes burnt from neglect, you’re eventually able to plate two sets of pancakes… and peaches, sliced by Sylus.

You move to sit across from him in the in-kitchen breakfast nook until he pulls you on top of him, cradling you over his massive thighs.

 In between nuzzles and kisses, you feed each other bites of breakfast until you’ve each had your fill. Then, his hands adjust you in his lap so he can have a better view of your face, your eyes.

“Alright,” he begins, tone serious, “now that you’ve eaten why don’t we revisit the topic of your terms.”

“Terms?” You ask.

“Yes,” he nods, “you should never negotiate on an empty stomach.”

You feel a bit lost and it shows on your face.

“Why don’t you start with what is a non-negotiable for you? Something you feel certain of?”

This, you can do.

“I don’t want any more checks left at your bedside. Or ever.”

“Do you prefer cash or credit?”

A glare.

“I prefer not to sell myself to my–” your brain interrupts your mouth.

“Your…?” Sylus prompts.

A rolodex of words flashes before you: lover, boyfriend, ???

“The person I’m sleeping with.”

“Right. So what was the whole sugar baby thing about?”

Your eyes look anywhere but him even when he leans in and brushes the hair away from your forehead.

“The woman who raised me and my foster brother both died in the Bloomshore explosions. She still had a mortgage and the funerals were expensive so… yeah.”

“Mortgage?”

“Yeah, it turns out even explosions don’t clear them.”

A disbelieving sound escapes him.

“And people say I’m evil.”

That earns a laugh from you, and he strokes your cheek with his thumb. 

“Alright. No more payments. For my part I want exclusivity.”

“Exclusivity?”

“Yes. I don’t want you seeing anyone else romantically or sexually.”

As if anyone else could hold your interest. It’s laughable, really, but his eyes are earnest when you look at them.

“Okay.” Your voice is barely above a whisper when you agree.

“Anything else?” Sylus asks.

“Yes.” You nod.

How to explain it properly to him? 

“I…want to pay you back.”

“No, I can't accept that. Besides, you should have some savings, kitten.”

“No, it's really more than I need. Please let me transfer it back to you.”

“It’s already yours. You'll have to indulge me on this point. But you don't have to let it sit in your account if it's bothering you. Why don't you invest? Or start something new with it?”

That was something you hadn’t considered. What good could you do with some of his likely-ill-begotten money?

You’re lost in thought when he speaks again.

“I have to go away for a few days on business. You might not be able to get a hold of me. Don't panic”

When you don’t answer, he ducks his head down to catch your gaze.

“Okay?” He asks.

“I don’t panic,” you defend, “I’m a hunter.”

“Then what was that display about this morning?”

“Okay, fine. I won’t panic. How long is a few days anyway?”

“In the N109 Zone, it’s typically three to four. What’s the definition in Linkon?”

“About the same. Give or take.”

“Hmm.” his thumb caresses your cheekbone, “let’s get you upstairs. You look exhausted.”

You want to balk at him but the truth is, he’s right.

The two of you had barely slept.

So instead of protesting, you only nod, letting him carry you up to his room and tucking you in. He takes the other side of the bed, reading on some tablet or other, free hand holding yours until you drift off to sleep. 

After the technicolor world of Sylus, returning to your desk at HQ feels surreal. How did the rest of the world return to normalcy when yours had been totally rocked? 

But, in fact, you see everything around you in a new way. The water fountain in the lobby looks more serene than before. Your to-go coffee tastes better. The smile on your face can’t be unstuck.

Sylus had declined to come up when he dropped you off last night.

“If I come upstairs, I don’t think either of us will get any rest.”

You can only smile coquettishly. He’s not wrong and you both know it. 

He leans across the console to kiss you, deeply.

A look of sadness flashes over your face when he pulls away first.

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand and he looks at you, searching.

“So… three to four days, right?” You ask, cringing at how lame it sounds, even to your own ears.

“What can I say to reassure you?” He asks.

You only shake your head to attempt to shrug him off. 

His hands reach around his neck and he unclips something. A necklace. It’s simple enough at first glance, but then he points out a needle-point sized button inside of it.

“This will give you entry to any of my safehouses or the Onychinus base. It also activates as a beacon if you break it. Don’t hesitate to use it if you need to.”

Leaning forward, he loops it around your neck, tucking the pendant into your blouse and kisses your forehead once, twice.

“Go,” he says and it feels like a command, “sleep well, little hunter.”

It feels like all of your blood vessels are dilated. Nothing can bother you today. Not even the desk duty assignment. 

A stack of folders piled high on your desk when you walked in but you didn’t mind. In fact, your high lasts even through the panic swirling around you.

You’re only jolted into focus when you hear Xavier’s voice from a conference room. It’s unusually tight and clipped as he speaks to a second voice.

Discreetly as possible, you wheel your chair over slightly to listen in. 

“It was absolutely targeted.” Captain Jenna’s familiar voice insists.

“Which files?” Xavier asks.

“High-value bounty profiles. All Onychinus files.”

An involuntary gasp leaves you. Onychinus?

Your watch buzzes but when you check it, there’s nothing there.

Discreetly, you stand trying to get a better line of hearing to the office. Xavier’s piercing blue eyes catch you and with a slide he closes the office door entirely. Behind the clear glass, he shakes his head, minutely.

You try not to panic. After all, you’d promised Sylus you wouldn’t.

But then one day passes without hearing from him. Then another. And another. And soon it’s been five days without hearing from him.

“Everything okay?” You shoot off a text and wait.

Maybe he was seeing someone else and that had all been a ploy to end things without the drama. No. You had promised not to panic.

You call his phone. It rings once, then disconnects.

Call Failed.

Huh?

You try again but the same pattern repeats.

Just then, your Hunter’s Watch pings with a notification.

DETAINED: ONYCHINUS LEADER SYLUS QIN ARRESTED

Chapter Text

Sylus still isn’t answering his phone.

You call once. 

Twice. 

Five times.

Feigned indifference be damned.

“Come on,” you breathe, “answer me, motherfucker.”

Nothing. 

It varies between ringing and call failing. 

The air in your apartment feels wrong, choking and thick. The kind of quiet that makes your instincts prickle. You pace before dialing Xavier’s number.

He picks up immediately.

“Yes?” He asks

“Are you home?”

“...No.” His tone is clipped, wary and it makes the skin on the back of your neck raise.

“Did you arrest him?”

His only response is a strained exhale. 

“Xavier, please, where is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There’s something brittle in his voice. Fear, maybe. Or guilt. It presses cold into your bones.

“You’re lying,” you accuse, voice tight with emotion. 

Anger seethes in your chest and tears of frustration prick at the edge of your eyelids.

“Stay where you are,” he commands and then only a dial tone greets you from the other end of the line.

Like hell you will. 

You grab your jacket and helmet. Luke and Kieran had to know something. 

Even if Sylus had been arrested, and that was a very big ‘if’, it was likely either on purpose or some kind of ruse altogether. 

Your pulse drums behind your ribs like an animal trying to escape its own cage.

The bike growls beneath you as you shoot out of the city. 

The deeper you get into the Disambiguation Zone, the more inconsistent the lighting becomes, half burnt-out and half shot-out. 

The highway empties out before you and your thoughts scatter in frantic constellations.

His last look at you, the way he brushed his thumb along your pulse, the weight of his silence now. 

You couldn’t lose him. 

You’d just gotten him.

How bad were the crimes he could really be prosecuted for? He'd said there were no laws in the N109 Zone. Were there even lawyers who specialized in N109 Zone matters? Would he be tried in a Linkon court? 

The bike engine roars beneath you, pushed to its limits.

The border between the Disambiguation Zone and the N109 Zone is marked with bright floodlights, drones humming like wasps. 

The world shifts the moment you breach it. The light changes, darker with the added mist and the air takes on a metallic hum. 

The road narrows, hemmed in by abandoned buildings and broken glass. 

Up ahead, something sharp gleams across the pavement. 

A strip of spikes. 

You recognize the glint from Evol Police training.

Thick, metal fangs designed to rupture tires and snap momentum.

You swear under your breath, throttle hard, and pull your weight back just as your front tire hits the edge of the first spike. 

For a breathless moment, both you and the bike hang suspended in the air. Then you crash down on the far side, the shock jarring your teeth.

You’re still settling when you see her.

A small girl, sitting alone at the edge of the road.

Her shoulders tremble. Her face is buried in her hands. 

She looks impossibly tiny.

You slow the bike, then brake entirely, even though every instinct tells you not to. 

You need to get to the Onychinus Base and understand the situation. If Sylus had been arrested, you needed to act fast. In a split second the protocols of a million prior experiences flash through your mind. Your Deepspace Hunter training. Real combat experience. Common sense, even.

But you’re human before you’re anything else.

You kick the stand down and lean your bike over, approaching cautiously like you would a wild animal. 

It vaguely dawns on you that there’s something strange about the one bright lamp shining over to illuminate her form. 

Maybe she’d sought it out in her panic. 

The broken glass crunches under your heavy boots and she flinches with each step. 

“Hello?” you ask gently, “are you okay?”

She sniffles but doesn’t raise her face. “I… I can’t find my mommy.”

Your throat tightens. You take a careful step closer, checking the shadows around you. Your hands brush either side of your holsters.

“Okay. It’s alright. I can help you. You’ll be okay. We just need to…”

What is your plan? 

If a wanderer or hostile human appears, you’ll need to think fast to protect both yourself and the little girl. Would she be strong enough to hold onto you on the back of your bike? 

Or could she sit in front of you and you could cradle her in your arms?

A sting.

A tiny, precise sting at the corner of your neck, like a wasp.

You slap a hand to your skin but the needle has already been extracted. 

The world blurs at the edges as darkness takes over.

“What-”

The girl lifts her face. Her eyes gleam with a glassy, adult stillness.

Suffocating black claws at the sides of your vision and distantly you feel the asphalt and broken glass rise up to meet you. Only one thought surfaces as you realize you’re losing consciousness. 

Sylus. 

You aren’t going to make it to him in time.

Consciousness returns in fragments.

A drip of water.

The hum of a backup generator.

Low, pulsing vibrations through concrete.

You’re tied to a metal chair. Dust floats in the air. The light is dim and flickering. It makes your pounding headache even worse.

Beneath you, the rough floor has shallow puddles, accumulating from the dripping pipes above.

There’s a man in the corner, sitting on a disgusting mattress, hunched over a laptop. He doesn’t look too big, but it’s hard to make out his exact size or age. 

He hasn’t realized you’re awake yet. 

Scanning the room, you assess the space for potential escape routes.

No windows. 

One door. 

One vent. 

Okay. 

You can do this. 

You will survive. Determination thrums through your veins. Sylus’ red eyes burn behind your eyelids when you close them. You would see him again. 

First you need to clear your mind and get your bearings, then you can make a plan. You breathe deeply and try to sense the necklace around your throat. 

Sylus’ necklace. 

His beacon. Likely your best bet in getting any backup here.

You can’t feel the chain or the pendant, but that doesn’t mean anything. The front of your head is splitting with pain, undoubtedly from whatever sedative you had been injected with. 

The man in the corner is typing away and you squint trying to make out what’s on the screen. 

When you lean forwards, slightly, the chair creaks and he turns.

“You’re awake,” he says in a dry, almost disappointed tone.

Silence is your only reply. 

On one hand, you knew you should humanize yourself to him. Tell him your name, your hobbies, your childhood. 

On the other, you want to see what he will say without prompting. And wonder if he knows those details already.

He stands and walks over to you, pausing to take in your appearance.

He has your hunter firearm, spinning it with a flourish before aiming it at you. You don’t flinch. It can’t kill you. He snorts before circling you, slow and deliberate.

“For such a little girl, you have some big secrets,” he says. “You think no one notices the little trips across the border? Attending dinner parties on his arm? Stealing hightowers?”

You hold his gaze but make no reply. 

So, it had been a trap. 

And you fell for it hook, line and sinker.

He shoves the hunter firearm into the back waistband of his pants and pulls out your other weapon, spinning it again and pointing it directly at your forehead. 

This time, you do flinch and he laughs heartily.

“Much better,” he taunts, “so this is what’s gotten Sylus all soft. I can’t say I’m very impressed.” 

He trails a finger from your temple to your chin, gripping your face to force you to make eye contact with him.

“Then again,” he continues, “maybe I need to sample the goods to really get it.”

He’s leering at you openly and revulsion pulses through you at his meaning.

“There’s no way that ends well for you.” You try your hand at a vague threat but the man isn’t swayed.

“Is that so?” He asks, his rancid breath forcing you to turn your head away again.

“Why am I here?” You ask.

“You’re just bait.” He spits, once, on the ground.

“For Sylus?”

“Who else?” He sneers.

You force your breath to stay steady. 

“He won’t come.”

The man smiles thinly. 

“He already is.”

Your stomach drops.

“How did you hack my Hunter Watch?” You ask but there’s a loud knock on the wall and the man doesn’t answer you.

“Behave now, kitten.” 

Your jaw drops open and skin crawls at the term of endearment. 

Somehow hearing that name from this cretin’s mouth felt more of a violation than anything you’d endured so far tonight.

When he leaves, you’re left alone in the cold, silent room. 

Slowly, your fingers regain feeling. You twist your wrists and hope the rope fibers will start to fray. The skin underneath it feels raw and pink. There’s the sensation of liquid and you realize you’ve broken skin. Morbidly, the added lubrication eases your escape and you’re able to get one hand out.

That free hand is all you need. Pulling it back to your front, you’re able to remove your left foot, then right, then stand and pull your other hand out. As you’d guessed, both wrists are raw, red and bleeding but it’s a small price to pay. 

WIth a full view of the room, you look around for any additional exits or cameras. If this organization was professional enough to get one over on Sylus, surely they were watching you. Somehow.

Underneath your collar, you find the necklace and throw it to the ground, stomping, hard, with your boot. It breaks, glows red and incinerates. Activated, you hope.

Still, you are no damsel in distress, and set about rescuing yourself.

The laptop in the corner is still open and you walk over to see what you can make out.

The time. 

It’s been three hours since you left Linkon. The page open has security feeds, presumably of the other areas and entrances of the warehouse.

Clicking the start up menu, you go to the information page for the computer. 

“Who do you belong to?” You whisper, clicking through and wishing you could take it with you. 

Start > Info > System Info > My Computer

>> E.V.E.R. Group // Eternity Vanquishes Evolution Restraint

>> S.I.R.E.N. // Systemic Intimacy Reconnaissance & Evol Network

>> Project Honeypot

You click the folder and your hand shakes when you see another folder with your name in all caps. Inside, you find your dossier. All of the sugar baby paperwork. Notes on the time you’d spent with him. The contract - signed by you and by Sylus. 

Someone had manufactured all of this. 

But how? And why? And what did they want with both of you? 

Your breath is shaky when you exhale but there’s no time. Making a split second decision, you grab the computer and take it with you. 

The vent is in a top corner and you’ll need to throw it in there before you can cram yourself in. 

With adrenaline-fueled strength, you manage, somehow, to pull off the vent. 

Aided by disuse and moderate rust it comes away. 

Tucking the vent cover into the front of your shirt, you throw the laptop into the shaft. Next, pressing one foot against the corner, then the other, you use your grip strength to pull yourself up and inside of it. 

You replace the vent cover as best you can and begin to make your way through the air vent. It’s slimy and sickly smelling but better than waiting for whatever despicable fate awaited you back in that locked room. 

You have to move agonizingly slowly to avoid banging around in the metal tube. The laptop is wedged underneath your arm and you crawl forwards, inch by inch.

A vent appears beneath you and you pause, breathing quietly and taking in the scene below you. At least half a dozen men, heavily armed, are pacing. They’re in tactical gear. Dressed differently from the man confined with you. 

You’re able to get more context on where you are. Some kind of dock-adjacent warehouse. By the sea, if your nose is right. 

You startle when the large metal front doors of the building bang open. The noise from your movement reveals your spot and someone shoots into the vent, spraying the area around you with bullets. 

In a split second, you’re yelping and hitting the ground. But no further bullets touch you. When you push up onto your knees you see Sylus, Evol flaring and his red-black mist crushing all six of the assailants to dust. 

Their screams barely register in your mind as you wipe the iron-dust off of your nose and catch your breath. 

In a flash, he’s before you, lifting you up by the shoulders.

For a moment, he says nothing.

He simply looks at you, inspecting your body for injuries.

“I’m okay,” you say and then he’s pulling you into his arms, crushing your body against his, lips pressed into your mouth pouring out desperate relief.

“I told you,” his voice is thick with emotion as he looks between your eyes, “not to panic.”

The Evol Police and Xavier arrive not long after Sylus had dispatched the last of the hostiles. Sylus is eager to whisk you away to relative safety but you insist on giving a report. 

He steps into the shadows, watching but unseen.

You sit on the tailgate of an Evol Police van as a medic checks your pulse. The night is raw and bruised around you. Police lights paint the air in red and blue.

Xavier steps up beside you, his expression both relieved and concerned.

“Your double life is over,” he says quietly. 

“I know.”

“You can’t keep this up,” he pushes his hands through his too long hair and sighs heavily, “the secrecy…the trips into the N109 Zone. It ends tonight.”

You stare out into the dark space between the N109 and Linkon. The no hunt zones. The no-man’s-land. 

The stretch of forgotten ground where people live without protection, without jurisdiction, without hope.

It hits you with sudden clarity.

“You’re right.”

Xavier’s brows lift. 

“Meaning?”

“Xavier, please accept my resignation from the Linkon City Deepspace Hunters.”

His shoulders sink in disappointment and he pulls back from you.

“I’m going to found a Deepspace Hunter unit stationed in the Disambiguation Zone. Don’t the people stuck between worlds deserve protection too?”

Xavier exhales, half-laugh, half-ache.

“You’re serious?”

You nod.

He looks at you with a strange mixture of pride and grief.

“It’s not easy to start something new,” he warns.

“No,” you reply and look at his face carefully, “you would know, I think.”

 He nods slightly and there’s an unspoken promise between the two of you. You would protect his secret and, hopefully, he would protect yours.

“I hope,” you continue, “that you can help me convince the international allegiance of Deepspace Hunters to support it.”

“I’ll back you,” he says softly. “But…” he sighs heavily and leaves the thought unfinished.

“I know.”

Neither of you say goodbye. 

But when he claps his hand to your shoulder and nods once, twice, and steps away, you know that is the end of your friendship with your old mission partner. 

Sylus waits for you, patiently. 

At some level he seems to know that this is ‘goodbye’ to your old life. Perhaps, even more than you do.

Your chest tightens when you see him coming.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“No.”

He cradles your bloodied wrists tenderly in his hands, reproachful. 

“Not really,” you correct yourself, “just a few scratches. I'm okay.” You reassure. 

“You scared me,” he answers, voice barely a whisper.

You lift your hand. He meets it halfway, fingers threading through yours like a vow. The energy of your two Evols pulses and warms you.

“What now?” You ask.

He leans in, forehead resting on yours. 

“Now,” he answers, “we build something entirely new, together.”

The night softens around you. The sirens fade. The wind carries the faint scent of cold metal and crushed leaves.

For the first time in a long while, hope flares in your chest. 

Chapter Text

You’re perched on the wide stone railing between the arches, a graceful silhouette reflected in the water below. The arches curve above you, your bare feet pressed against one pillar and your back against the other.

To your right, the mosaic tiled floor leads back into the villa’s cool shadows where Sylus is wrapping up some call or other. To your left, the lake glints in the late afternoon light.

A newspaper crossword rests on your thigh, pencil tracing letters. 

Every so often you pause, eyes drifting toward the lake as if the answer were hidden somewhere in the ripples.

Climbing vines curl lazily around the stones, buds just shy of blossoming. 

The two of you have finally gotten away on your trip to the lake country. It has been difficult between your busy schedules. 

Sylus’ retribution against Ever Group had been swift and brutal. But, it seemed every time he cut off one head, two new ones sprouted in its place. 

Beyond that, the N109 Zone needed his attention and founding a new Deepspace Hunters Unit with his ‘investment’ had been extremely difficult, but also, extremely rewarding. 

You were about halfway done with your puzzle when Sylus stepped out through the open door to join you on the loggia.

“It’s been three-hundred-and-sixty-four days since we first met.” Sylus opens.

“Has it, really?” you ask, not looking up from the paper.

“Yes, sweetie.” He wants your attention.

“Well then,” you glance up at him with a coy smile, “happy almost anniversary.”

“It’s time to sign a new contract."

“...” 

You’re silent and look over at him in disbelief. The pencil in your hand clatters to the stone surface beside you.

“You’re joking.”

“No, kitten, I’m afraid I’ve never been more serious. The old contract expires tomorrow.”

Your lips pout and brows furrow. But you pause a moment before taking the bait.

By this point, you know that mischievous look in his eye. 

So you set aside the crossword to give him your full attention.

“And what, exactly, would this new contract entail?”

“Well,” he takes a few steps towards you, tilting his head and smiling, “the timeline is a bit longer.”

“Hmm. I’m open to that,” you answer.

“Would you like to counter?”

“Of course. It needs to be more…” you tapped a finger to your chin, considering, “... reciprocal.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

He sidles over to lean on the pillar at your feet.

Sylus is dressed impeccably and you try to recall vaguely if you have a formal dinner reservation for tonight. 

You’d need to steam that dress, undoubtedly wrinkled in the suitcase from the plane ride over.

But then, your train of thought is interrupted when he speaks again.

“It’s quite a bit of paperwork, but all very standard.”

“Uh-huh.” You’re playing along and waiting for the inevitable punchline.

“The gist of it though,” he lowers himself to one knee and pulls out a small box from a hidden pocket, “is this: what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. What do you say?”

Your jaw is undoubtedly hanging open as you take in the sight of Sylus, on bended knee, breeze ruffling his hair, shirt partly unbuttoned. He pops open the box to reveal an elegant, if massive, diamond ring.

“Are you–” your voice is disbelieving.

“Yes.” He answers, eyes earnest and bright, “I am. Marry me.”

Your hand flies to your mouth, arms windmilling wildly and then you’re falling backwards off of the stone railing.

The last thing you see before your back hits freezing cold water is Sylus, smiling and still holding the ring between his index finger and thumb, diving in after you.