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The first time you truly saw him — not in alleyways, not in shadows, not in stolen moments between one strike and another — was in his territory, at the heart of the N109 Zone, where the darkness is so thick it feels like something solid, something you can touch. Luke and Kieran had brought you there blindfolded, a courtesy, they said, but you knew it was to disorient you, so you wouldn't find your way back if you tried to escape.
You weren't going to run.
The room was vast and empty, purposefully empty, like everything that belonged to him. Just an armchair, a bottle of wine on a metal table, vinyl records stacked against the wall as if they were the only thing he allowed himself to collect. And in the center of it all, him.
Sylus had his back to you when they brought you in, Luke and Kieran's arms holding your elbows with a firmness that didn't quite hurt but didn't allow movement. He wore a black long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing pale skin and muscles that tensed as he raised a wine glass to his lips.
"Ils peuvent partir." The words came in French, low and drawn out, as if each one had to travel a great distance to reach your ears. Luke and Kieran released you immediately and left without a sound, the doors closing behind them with a soft click that felt more final than any lock.
He didn't turn around. He stayed with his back to you, drinking his wine, looking out the window that opened onto eternal blackness, onto the darkness that never yielded to light.
"You came," he said in English now, his voice the same — low, deliberate. It wasn't a question.
"You sent for me."
"I did." He finally turned, slowly, and you saw the smile. It wasn't a cruel smile, but it wasn't gentle either. It was the smile of someone who knows something you don't, who's read all the pages of the book and is just waiting for you to get there. "But you could have resisted. Could have tried to run. Could have made the boys actually work."
"And what would be the point?"
He laughed, a low sound, almost a growl. He approached, and you noticed how his red eyes traveled over you — not the way a man looks at a body he desires, but the way a reader scans a difficult sentence, looking for the hidden meaning between the lines. His silver hair fell tousled over his forehead, over one eye, but the other, the right one, glowed for an instant when he stopped just inches from you.
"You're not afraid," he observed.
"Should I be?"
"Most are." He raised his hand, slowly, giving you time to pull away, to retreat, to scream. You did none of those things. His fingers touched your face, his fingertips tracing your jawline with a lightness that hurt. "Most run. Most cry. Most beg."
"I'm not most people."
"No." His smile widened, showing teeth. "You're not. You never were."
There was something in the way he said it, as if referring to ancient knowledge, to a truth you should know but didn't remember. Before you could ask, his hand slid to your nape, his long fingers wrapping around your skin with a possessiveness that made your stomach drop.
"Do you know why I sent for you, kitten?"
The nickname came strangely from his mouth, at once affectionate and provoking, endearing and teasing.
"No idea."
"Because you have something of mine." He tightened his grip on your nape, pulling you closer, your faces inches apart. "Something that was taken from me a long time ago. And I want it back."
"I don't have anything of yours."
"You do." His free hand rose to your chest, pressing his warm palm against your racing heart. "Here. You have half of my soul, kitten. And I came to get it."
The room seemed to spin around you. The words didn't make sense, couldn't make sense, but they echoed somewhere inside you, somewhere you didn't know existed, igniting memories that weren't yours.
"That's insane," you whispered.
"It is." He agreed without hesitation. "But it's true. You killed me, kitten. Thousands of years ago, in another body, in another life. You drove a sword into my chest and freed me from the only prison that mattered. And then you gave me half your soul so I wouldn't truly die."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you loved me." His voice broke on the last word, just a little, just enough to shatter something inside you. "Because I loved you. Because we were everything to each other, and we lost everything."
Tears came to your eyes without permission, without warning, and you felt them stream down your face before you could control them. His hand on your face caught them, his thumb tracing the wet path with a tenderness that hurt more than any violence.
"You cry," he observed, and there was wonder in his voice. "You always cry when I tell this story. In every life, in every reunion, you cry."
"I don't remember," you said, your voice breaking. "I don't remember anything."
"I know." He pulled you closer, your face against his chest, his arms wrapping around you as if you were the most precious and most fragile thing he had ever held. "But I remember for both of us. I remember every life, every death, every reunion. I remember your smell in a thousand different bodies. I remember the sound of your voice in a thousand dead languages. I remember, kitten. I always remember."
You stayed like that for a time you couldn't measure, you crying against his chest, him holding your body as if he wanted to merge it with his. When the tears finally stopped, you lifted your face to look at him, to find those red eyes that glowed in the half-light like burning coals.
"And now?" you asked. "What happens now?"
"Now you decide." He held your face between his hands, his thumb tracing the curve of your lips. "You can leave. You can try to forget again. You can live your life and let me wait a few more years, a few more decades, a few more centuries. Or..."
"Or?"
"Or you stay." His voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper, almost a secret. "You stay and we try again. You stay and we find out if, this time, we can make it."
Your throat closed. Literally — a knot, a tightness, something that blocked the passage of air and words. That was what he did to you from the first moment: took away your ground, took away your certainty, took away everything you thought you knew about yourself and the world.
"I don't know," you whispered. "I don't know who you are. I don't know who I am. I don't know..."
"I know." He tilted his face closer, his forehead touching yours, his warm breath against your lips. "I know who you are. I know who we are. And I can show you, kitten. If you let me."
"Show me how?"
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss started slowly, almost hesitant — if Sylus could be hesitant about anything. It was as if he were testing, tasting, remembering a flavor he'd known for millennia. But quickly it became something else. His mouth opened against yours, his tongue sliding inside, and you felt the hunger there, the need accumulated through centuries of waiting.
It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a devouring. It was a man — a beast — finally finding the only thing that could satisfy him. His hands held your face with a strength bordering on pain, but you didn't want him to ease up. You wanted to feel every gram of that desire, every year of loneliness transformed into pressure against your lips.
When he bit your lower lip, drawing blood, licking the wound, you moaned against his mouth. The taste of iron mixed with his taste, with the taste of wine and something older, something you couldn't name.
"Kitten," he growled, his voice vibrating against your skin. "I've waited so long..."
"Wait no more." Your hands found his hair, the silver strands slipping through your fingers like liquid silk. "Show me. Show me everything."
He needed no further encouragement. His mouth left yours and descended to your neck, biting, sucking, marking. Every point his lips touched seemed to catch fire, seemed to ignite something you didn't even know existed. You arched against him, offering more skin, more space, more of you.
"Like this?" he murmured against the curve of your shoulder, his teeth pressing into the flesh. "Is this how you want it?"
"Yes..." The word came out breathless, broken. "Yes, like this..."
His hand slid to the hem of your shirt, his warm fingers finding the skin of your stomach. He traced slow circles around your navel, moving up centimeter by centimeter, provoking, torturing. When he reached the bottom of your breasts, still covered by your bra, he stopped.
"Look at me," he ordered.
You obeyed, fixing your eyes on the red eyes that burned above you. He held your gaze as his hand slid upward, covering your entire breast, squeezing with a force that made your breath catch.
"You're beautiful," he said, simply, like stating that the sky is blue. "In every life, in every body, you're beautiful. But this version of you..." He squeezed harder, his thumb finding your nipple through the fabric, rubbing, pressing. "This version makes me want to devour you more than all the others combined."
"Then devour me."
He smiled, that predatory smile you were already learning to recognize, and then he pulled your shirt up, freeing your breasts, leaving them bare under his gaze. For a moment he just looked, his red eyes traversing every inch, every curve, every shadow. And then his mouth descended.
The heat of his tongue against your nipple was an electric shock that traveled through your entire body. He sucked, nibbled, licked, alternating between your two breasts with a dedication that made you dizzy, that made you lose track of where you ended and he began. Each movement of his mouth drew a different moan from your throat, each pressure of his teeth brought you closer to something you couldn't name.
"Sylus..." you moaned, your hands gripping his hair, pulling him closer. "Please..."
"Please what, kitten?" He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his lips wet, his eyes gleaming. "You have to say it."
"I want to feel you." The shame came hot, rising to your face, but you didn't take back the word. "I want your hands. I want your mouth. I want everything."
His free hand descended your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the jut of your hip, the inside of your thigh. When it reached the place where you were hot and wet, waiting for him, he stopped, his fingers hovering over the fabric of your pants.
"You're wet," he observed, and there was wonder in his voice. "So wet, kitten. All this from just a few kisses?"
"You know it is." Your voice came out hoarse, desperate. "You know what you do to me."
"I want to hear you say it."
"You make me wet." The words came out in a whisper, but he heard. He always heard. "Just looking at you, just feeling you near, I get like this. I want you inside me. I need..."
He groaned, a sound so full of desire it vibrated in the air between you. And then his fingers finally moved, unbuttoning your pants with a skill that suggested practice, pulling the fabric down along with your underwear in one motion.
The cold air of the room hit your bare skin, and you trembled, but the tremor turned into something more when his fingers found your sex, sliding through your folds, finding the spot where you were most sensitive, most needy.
"So wet," he repeated, and now his voice was different, deeper, rougher, closer to something you couldn't name. "So hot. So perfect."
His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, learning every texture, every reaction, every little spasm you couldn't control. He found your clitoris with a precision that made you arch your back, that made you dig your nails into his shoulders, that made you moan his name like a prayer.
"Sylus... Sylus, please..."
"Please what, kitten?" He continued the movement, slow, torturous, building something you knew would destroy you. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No!" The cry escaped before you could control it. "Don't stop, don't ever stop, please..."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want you to eat me." The words came out in a single breath, shame and desire finally merging into something that was just truth. "I want your fingers inside me. I want your mouth. I want everything."
He smiled, that smile that was promise and danger, and then his fingers slid inside you.
The moan that escaped your throat was too loud for the silence of the room, too desperate for someone who had barely been touched. But that was what he did to you — turned every touch into cataclysm, every caress into earthquake. His fingers moved inside you, slow at first, then faster, finding the rhythm your body begged for, that your body pleaded for.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on your face. "Is this how you like it?"
"Yes... yes... faster..."
He obeyed, speeding up the movement, and you felt the pressure build, felt the pleasure accumulate somewhere deep, felt yourself getting close, so close...
"I want to watch you come," he murmured, his mouth near your ear, his warm breath against your skin. "I want to see your face when you fall apart on my fingers. I want to hear you scream my name."
"Sylus... I'm going... I'm..."
"Come, kitten." His voice was a command, an invitation, a prayer. "Come for me. Come."
And you did. You fell apart on his fingers, in his eyes, on his mouth that didn't look away from your face for a single second. You fell apart into pieces, into screams, into tears you didn't know where they came from. You fell apart and he held you, gathered you, put you back together.
When you came back to yourself, breathless, trembling, ridiculously vulnerable, he was there, looking at you with those eyes that saw everything, that knew everything, that loved you despite everything.
"Kitten," he called, and the word was a home.
"Hmm?"
"That was beautiful."
You laughed, a weak, broken laugh. "You're crazy."
"I am." He agreed, leaning in to kiss your forehead. "But you are too. We're crazy together."
But it wasn't enough. It couldn't be enough. You looked at him — at the way his shirt still covered his body, at the obvious bulge in his pants, at the control he still maintained while you were completely undone.
"You didn't come," you observed.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it wasn't about me." He smiled, but the smile was soft, almost tender. "It was about you. About reminding you what we are. About showing you that I can give you pleasure without asking for anything in return."
"But I want to give." You sat up on the bed — when had he taken you to the bed? you didn't remember, but you were there now, on the dark sheets that smelled of him —, facing him, your hands finding the waistband of his pants. "I want you. I want to feel you. I want to make you come."
"Kitten..." His voice held a warning, but also desire, so much desire.
"Let me." You unbuttoned his pants with trembling fingers, pulled down the zipper, slid your hand inside. "Let me touch you. Let me make you feel what you made me feel."
He was hard, hot, so big your hand could barely wrap around him completely. You held him, feeling the pulse beneath the skin, feeling the tremor that ran through his body at your touch.
"Kitten," he groaned, his head falling back, his eyes closing for an instant. "That..."
"Quiet." You smiled, using his own tactic against him. "Now it's my turn."
You slid off the bed, kneeling before him, and saw his eyes widen when they understood your intention. He opened his mouth to say something, but you didn't let him. You leaned in and took him in your mouth.
His taste was unique — salty, masculine, something deeper you couldn't identify, something that seemed to echo somewhere inside you, in some memory that wasn't yours but was. You took him as far as you could, hearing his moans, feeling his hands find your hair, squeezing, guiding, but carefully, always carefully.
"Kitten..." his voice was broken now, losing the control he held so firmly. "Kitten, that... that is..."
You responded with a movement, deepening, your tongue tracing paths, learning every texture, every reaction. His legs trembled, his hands gripped your hair with a force bordering on pain, and you loved every second, loved knowing it was you doing this to him, loved watching the beast lose control.
His breathing became more irregular, his moans louder, more desperate. You felt the moment he approached the edge, felt it in every tense muscle, in every hoarse word that escaped his lips.
"Stop," he said suddenly, pulling your head back. "Stop, kitten, or I'll come in your mouth and that's not how I want the first time."
"How do you want it?" you asked, your lips wet, your breathing fast, his taste still on your tongue.
He pulled you up, throwing you back on the bed, covering your body with his. His weight was good, was right, was exactly what you needed to feel. His erection pressed against your thigh, hot and hard, and you opened for him instinctively, your legs spreading to receive him.
"I want to be inside you," he murmured against your mouth. "I want to feel you squeezing me. I want to see your face when I come inside you."
"Then do it." Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer. "Do it, Sylus. Take me."
He positioned himself between your legs, the tip of him brushing your entrance, and you moaned just from that contact, just from the promise of what was to come. You were so sensitive after the orgasm, so open, so ready.
"Look at me," he ordered. "I want you to look at me when I enter you."
You obeyed, fixing your eyes on the red eyes that burned above you. And then he entered.
It was slow — surprisingly slow, considering everything —, centimeter by centimeter, giving you time to adjust to his size, to feel every part of him filling every part of you. Even with all the preparation, even with the previous orgasm, he was big, and you felt the stretch, the filling, the sensation of being complete for the first time.
When he reached the bottom, you both moaned together, a sound that was one.
"Kitten," he whispered, his forehead against yours, his breath warm. "You're so perfect. So tight. So hot. So mine."
"Yours," you agreed. "All yours."
He began to move, slow at first, a languid rhythm that let you feel every inch of him sliding inside you, leaving, entering again. His eyes didn't leave yours, and you saw everything there — millennia of waiting, millennia of loneliness, millennia of stored-up love.
"Faster," you asked. "Please, faster."
He obeyed, speeding up the rhythm, and you moaned loudly, your nails digging into his back, your legs squeezing his waist. Each thrust pushed you higher up the bed, each thrust brought you closer to the abyss you felt approaching.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice hoarse with effort and pleasure. "Is this how you like it?"
"Yes... yes... God, yes..."
"There is no God, kitten." He smiled, but the smile was love, was surrender, was everything. "There's only me. Only you. Only us."
His hand slid between you, finding your clitoris, pressing in rhythm with his thrusts, and you saw stars, saw the entire universe shatter around you.
"Sylus," you screamed. "Sylus, I'm going to..."
"Come." His voice was a command and a plea. "Come with me. Come, kitten. Come."
You did. You shattered into pieces around him, squeezing him, pulling him deeper, further inside. And he came with you, a long, hoarse groan against your neck, his body trembling over yours, his heat filling every empty space inside you.
You stayed like that for a long time, your bodies glued together, your breaths meeting, your hearts beating in the same impossible rhythm. When he finally moved, it was just to lie down beside you, pulling you to his chest, wrapping you in his arms.
"Kitten," he called, his voice sleepy, sated.
"Hmm?"
"I love you." The words came simply, without artifice, without games. "I've always loved you. I'll always love you."
"I know." You kissed his chest, the place over the scar that your hands had once created. "I do too. Even without remembering. I do too."
He tightened his embrace, buried his face in your hair, and you felt something warm and wet against your scalp. Tears? From a dragon? From a man who had lived millennia?
You didn't ask. You just stayed there, feeling his weight, his warmth, his truth.
And for the first time in a long time, you felt at home.
You woke to the sensation of fingers tracing slow paths on your back. It was still dark — or light, impossible to know in the N109 Zone —, but you felt his presence like you feel your own breath.
"You're awake," he observed.
"I am."
"How long did you sleep?"
"I don't know." You turned to look at him, to find those red eyes that glowed in the half-light. "How long has it been?"
He smiled, that lazy smile you already loved. "A few hours. Maybe more. Time is strange here."
"And you watched me this whole time?"
"I did." He didn't deny it, didn't apologize. "You're beautiful when you sleep. You look at peace. You look like nothing can hurt you."
"Nothing can." You touched his face, the strong line of his jaw, the lips that trembled under your fingers. "As long as you're here."
He pulled you on top of his body, settling you between his legs, his large hands holding your waist with that possessiveness that made your stomach drop.
"Kitten," he called.
"Hmm?"
"I want you again."
"Me too." You smiled, leaning in to bite his lower lip. "But this time, I want it differently."
"How?"
"I want to be on top. I want to control the rhythm. I want to watch you lose control."
His eyes gleamed, a red fire that seemed to illuminate the entire room. "You want to ride the beast?"
"Yes."
He laughed, but it was a laugh full of desire. "Then ride, kitten. The beast is all yours."
You needed no further encouragement. You positioned yourself over him, holding his already hard and hot length — when had he gotten like that again? you didn't know, but it didn't matter —, guiding him to your entrance. You descended slowly, feeling every inch fill every space, hearing the moan that escaped his lips.
"Like this?" you asked, provoking, using his own words against him.
"Kitten..." His voice was hoarse, broken. "Don't toy with me."
"Who's toying?"
You began to move, slow at first, learning the rhythm, learning the angle that made his eyes close and his hands grip your waist with a force that would certainly leave marks. When you found the right spot, the movement that made you both moan, you sped up.
"Like this?" you repeated, now faster, harder, riding him with a hunger you didn't know existed in you. "Is this how you like it?"
He answered with a moan, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, to your buttocks, squeezing, guiding, but leaving you in control. You rode him as if your life depended on it, each thrust bringing you closer to the abyss, each movement undoing you more.
The sight was surreal — you, naked, riding the most dangerous man in the N109 Zone, the leader of Onychinus, the creature who had lived millennia. And he was there, beneath you, moaning your name, losing the control he held so firmly.
"Kitten," his voice was a growl now, the beast emerging. His red eyes glowed more intensely, and you saw something there you had never seen before — surrender. "Kitten, I'm going to..."
"Come." You leaned in to kiss him, your mouths meeting in a desperate kiss, your tongues fighting, your bodies moving together in the same ancient rhythm. "Come with me. Come."
He came with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere very deep, very ancient, very true. And you came with him, squeezing him, pulling him deeper, further inside, feeling every drop of his pleasure mixed with yours.
Afterward, when your bodies finally stopped trembling, you lay on his chest, exhausted, happy, complete.
"Kitten," he called, his voice a whisper.
"Hmm?"
"That..."
"I know."
"You..."
"I know."
He laughed, a low sound that vibrated against your skin. "We don't need words, do we?"
"No." You kissed the scar on his chest. "We never did."
Later — much later, when your bodies had lost count of how many times you'd come together — you lay on your sides, face to face, legs intertwined, fingers tracing lazy paths on each other's skin.
"Tell me more," you asked.
"More what?"
"More about you. About before. About the beast."
He sighed, but it wasn't a sigh of impatience. It was the sigh of someone organizing ancient thoughts, dusty memories, pains that were centuries old.
"The beast," he began, his eyes lost somewhere beyond you, beyond the room, beyond time, "was born in the dark. At the bottom of an abyss where light never reached. Where sound never reached. Where nothing ever reached except loneliness itself."
"For how long?"
"One thousand six hundred years." He said it like stating any number, without emphasis, without drama. "Trapped. Cursed. Forgotten."
Your heart ached for something you didn't know, for someone you weren't, for a life you hadn't lived.
"And then?"
"And then you appeared." He smiled, but the smile was sad. "They threw you into the abyss. Sacrifice. Offering to the beast."
"I was sacrificed?"
"You were. And I..." He hesitated, his fingers stopping their paths on your skin. "I had never seen anything so bright. Even in the dark, even dirty, even condemned. You were light."
"And what did you do?"
"I did nothing. I could do nothing. I was trapped. But you... you approached. Looked me in the eyes. And weren't afraid."
"I wasn't afraid?"
"No." He laughed, softly. "You looked at the beast and said: 'You're hurt.'"
Tears came to your eyes without warning, without permission. You imagined the scene — the younger version of you, the braver version perhaps, looking at the most feared creature in the universe and seeing only pain.
"And then?" you whispered.
"Then you made a pact. Your life for my freedom." He pulled you closer, his forehead touching yours. "You drove the sword into me. Freed me. And I... I loved you from the first second you said my name."
"Your name?"
"The name you gave me. Stayrus. Then Sylus." He kissed your forehead, your eyes, your nose, your lips. "You named me, kitten. You made me exist."
"And then I killed you."
"And then you saved me." He held your face between his hands, firm, serious. "Gave me half your soul. Bound me to you. Guaranteed that no matter how many lives, no matter how many centuries, I would always find you."
"And you found me."
"I found you." His smile was vast, was infinite, was everything. "And I won't let you escape again."
He kissed you then, and it was a kiss of reunion, of recognition, of something beyond words. You felt his tongue slide against yours, felt his teeth bite your lip, felt his hand descend your back, squeeze your nape, pull your hair with a force that burned.
"Kitten," he growled against your mouth, "I want you again."
"Take me."
"No." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his red eyes burning. "It's not about taking. It's about you wanting me. It's about you asking."
"I ask." Your voice came out hoarse, desperate. "I ask, Sylus. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please love me. Love me the way only you know how."
He groaned, a sound so full of desire it vibrated in the air between you. And then he moved, his body covering yours, his weight anchoring you to the world, his mouth finding every inch of your skin as if it were the first time, as if it were the last.
"Like this?" he murmured against your neck, biting, sucking, marking. "Is this how you want to be loved?"
"Yes," you moaned, your nails digging into his back, your legs opening to receive him. "Yes, yes, yes..."
"Then receive." He entered you with a slow, deliberate movement that made you see stars behind your eyelids. "Receive everything, kitten. Receive the beast. Receive the man. Receive millennia of waiting."
You received. Received every inch, every moan, every hoarse word he whispered against your skin. Received the bites, the scratches, the hair-pulling. Received the rhythm that started slow and accelerated until it became desperate, until it became something that was no longer control, but surrender.
"Kitten," he groaned, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and uneven. "Kitten, I'm going to..."
"Come." Your legs squeezed his waist, pulling him deeper. "Come with me. Come."
And he came. You came. Together, undone, remade, bound by something older than time, stronger than death, more certain than any truth you knew.
But this time, when the spasms passed and breathing began to return to normal, something different happened.
He didn't pull away. Didn't lie down beside you. Instead, he buried his face even deeper in the curve of your neck, and you felt his body tremble — not the way it trembled during orgasm, but another way, a way you didn't know.
"Sylus?" you called, suddenly worried. "Sylus, what is it?"
He didn't answer. Just tightened his embrace, his arms wrapping around you as if you might disappear, as if you were sand slipping through his fingers. And then you felt it — warm and wet against your skin.
Tears.
He was crying.
"Sylus," you whispered, your hands finding his face, trying to pull him to look at you. "Sylus, look at me. Please."
He resisted for a moment, but finally lifted his head, and what you saw shattered your heart into pieces. His red eyes were flooded, tears streaming freely down his face, and there was something there you had never seen — something so vulnerable, so human, so broken it hurt just to look.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice completely destroyed, unrecognizable. "I'm sorry, I didn't want... I don't want you to see me like this..."
"Why are you crying?"
He tried to look away, but you held his face firmly, forcing him to look at you.
"Because..." He swallowed hard, the tears not stopping. "Because I waited so long. Because I spent millennia dreaming of this. Of you. Of us. And now that you're here, now that I can touch you, feel you, love you... I'm afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of waking up." The word came out in a whisper so fragile you almost didn't hear it. "Of discovering this is another dream. That you'll disappear again. That I'll spend another thousand years waiting, searching, dying of loneliness."
Hot tears streamed from your eyes too, mixing with his as you pulled his face closer.
"It's not a dream," you said, with all the truth that existed in you. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
"You don't remember." His voice was full of an ancient, accumulated pain. "You don't remember all the times I lost you. All the lives you died in my arms. All the times I had to bury you and keep living."
"Tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me about all of them." You kissed his tears, one by one. "Tell me about every life you lost me. And I'll promise you this is the last."
He looked at you for a long moment, his red eyes gleaming like wet embers. And then, slowly, he began to speak.
He told you about the first life, when you were a priestess in an ancient temple and died burned while trying to save children from a fire. He had arrived too late, found only ashes.
He told you about the second, when you were a warrior on a battlefield and he couldn't protect you from a stray arrow. You died in his arms, asking him not to cry.
He told you about the third, the fourth, the fifth — lives in different eras, different places, different bodies. In some you were old, surrounded by grandchildren, and he was there, always there, watching from afar, waiting for the moment you would leave again.
In all of them, he lost. In all of them, he stayed.
"The worst," he said, his voice still thick, "was the first one after the abyss. When you still remembered me. When we had real time. Years, kitten. Years together. And then you got sick, and I could do nothing. Me, who could destroy armies, who could bring down cities, couldn't stop a damn disease from taking you."
"Sylus..."
"I held your hand as you left." He closed his eyes, tears streaming even more. "You smiled at me. Said you'd wait for me. Said not to take too long. But I took too long. I always take too long. And when I finally died, centuries later, you had already been born again and died again without me finding you."
You pulled him to you with a strength you didn't know you had, wrapping him in your arms, rocking him as if he were the child he could never be.
"Listen," you whispered against his hair. "Listen, Sylus. This time is different."
"How?"
"Because I know." You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. "I know about us. I know the story. I know about the abyss, the sword, the curse. And even knowing, even remembering — because now I remember, suddenly it all made sense —, I'm here. I chose to stay."
"You remember?" His eyes widened. "You truly remember?"
"I remember the abyss. I remember you trapped, hurt, alone. I remember thinking you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen." You smiled, even with tears streaming. "I remember driving the sword into you. I remember your blood on my hands. I remember giving you half my soul because I couldn't bear the thought of a world without you."
He kissed you then, and it was different from all the previous kisses. It wasn't hunger, wasn't desire, wasn't possession. It was gratitude. It was relief. It was love in its purest form.
When you parted, breathless, you touched his face one more time.
"This time," you said, "we stay together until the end."
"We're immortal, kitten. There is no end."
"Then we stay together forever."
He laughed, and it was such a pure sound, so free, so different from everything you'd ever heard from him.
"Forever is a long time."
"I know." You smiled back. "But I have you. And you have me. And we have half of each other's souls. I think that's more than enough."
He pulled you closer, your bodies aligning perfectly, as if they had been made for this.
"Kitten."
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For coming back. For remembering. For staying." He kissed your forehead, your eyes, your nose, your lips. "For saving me. Again. Always."
"There's nothing to thank me for." You wrapped your legs around his, nestling against his chest. "You're my home, Sylus. Since the abyss. Since always. You're my home."
He tightened his embrace, and you felt his body finally relax, the tension of millennia dissolving against you.
"Then stay." His voice was a whisper now, sleepy, sated. "Stay home, kitten."
"I will."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
And there, in the silence of the empty room, in the heart of the eternal darkness, in the arms of the man who wasn't a man, of the beast who was more human than anyone, you closed your eyes and slept.
This time, without fear of dreaming.
This time, knowing that when you woke, he would still be there.
Forever.