I had never felt more self-conscious in my entire life.

Standing there in sweat-dampened clothes, with musty air clinging to me from the wind's rough treatment, and crusted blood marking most of my upper body—I silently begged the universe to open up a deep hole and swallow me whole. My face burned with embarrassment.

It was strange.

Just moments ago, I hadn't cared how I looked. My appearance hadn’t been a factor in my goal—my wanton intentions had fueled me, not hesitation. But now... my cheeks flushed hot with shame, and for once, I was almost grateful for the blood smearing my face—it masked the worst of it.

I wasn't hard on the eyes. Even if I rarely believed it, I’d been told as much all my life—especially by my father. When he was still alive, he made it a habit to remind me, it might be because of the kind of mother I had. But now, standing across from her, I felt like a troll. And judging by the look she gave me, that was the one thought we shared.

She wore a green gown that hugged her lithe frame like a second skin. As she stepped forward—no, glided—her eyes locked onto mine, emerald and sharp, appraising me with a predator’s cool disinterest. Her long black hair flowed like spun silk, not a strand out of place, framing features so divine she could’ve walked out of a myth.

I once read a history book where two kings waged war over a woman. I had no doubt that looks like hers sparked that kind of destruction.

“Elban" She drawled. "You brought a snack?” She purred. Her voice rang clear and smooth, directed past me to the man standing behind. I didn’t imagine the sneer in her tone. Apparently, I wasn’t even worth direct attention. That was fine. Her bitchy attitude gave me something unexpected—confirmation.

Elban. She said his name. She could choke on it for all I cared.

Because this male was mine. I knew it deep in my soul. If I have to claw those stupidly perfect eyes out of her head, I would.

His only reply was a dry, almost bored look aimed in her direction—one that spoke volumes about their relationship.

I seized the opportunity.

Turning toward him, I placed a hand on his chest and leaned in, catching the flicker of surprise in his expression.

“I’m spending the night, right?” I asked, syrup-sweet, loud enough for her to hear.

From the corner of my eye, I watched for a reaction. Jealousy. Anger. Possessiveness. Something.

Instead, she barely spared me a glance.

Just a flicker of distaste. Complete, unbothered dismissal.

I had to give it to her—never in my life had a stranger made me feel like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. But with one look, she nearly unraveled every ounce of confidence my father worked so hard to instill in me.

Still, I wasn’t going down without a fight.

I turned back to her, extending my hand in greeting. “Hi. I’m Darra. Elban’s friend.”

She scoffed and, of course, didn’t take it. But that didn’t matter. The name was out there now—he heard it. That alone was a win. She didn’t need to know how little we knew each other.

My gut told me not to give that up. Not to hand her any advantage.

“Elban, dear,” she purred, venom sweetened with honey. “You really shouldn’t bring your playthings into the house.”

Her eyes dragged over me, slow and sharp, like razors cloaked in silk. “They might ruin the carpet.”

And with that, she turned, her exit as effortless as her entrance. She floated toward the doorway, and just before slipping through, she tossed one final barb over her shoulder:

“Do clean up after you’re done. Eating like a beast is beneath even you.”

His face hardened into something unrecognizable. Gone was the curiosity or simmering heat I’d once caught in his gaze. In its place, only cold, emotionless marble.

Unmovable. Unyielding.

“Go,” he said. Eyes still locked on the door she’d vanished through.

“Excuse me?”

“Go,” he repeated, this time pinning me with that same chilling stare.

I opened my mouth to argue, to protest the dismissal, but he stepped closer. Something in his body language shifted—ominous and crackling with danger.

“Leave. The mess you made earlier will be taken care of.”

“What? I’m not going anywhere,” I snapped, lifting my chin stubbornly. “We need to talk.”

I crossed my arms and sank into one of the ridiculously expensive sofas, like I belonged there. Like I dared him to make me move.

“You owe me,” I said, slow and deliberate, nailing the words in with a look. “You. Owe. Me.”

He exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. His expression barely changed, but I saw the shift in his posture—tight, exasperated. I seemed to have a talent for getting under his skin.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice tight.

It was a dismissive question, one meant to shut me up and usher me out. But he clearly hadn’t dealt with anyone like me before. I didn’t do half-measures.

“I want emotional compensation,” I said plainly.

His brow lifted, but I didn’t give him time to respond.

“You took my blood without permission. Then you dumped me like I was nothing. I may not know much about your kind, but where I come from, taking something like that without consent?” I locked eyes with him. “That’s the same as rape.”

He flinched.

Bingo.

“You weren’t supposed to find out,” he muttered, running a hand through his wind-mussed hair. Shame clung to the gesture, and I recognized it now—it was his tell. He’d done it enough for me to catalog it as guilt.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” I said, my voice quieter this time, but no less firm.

He stared at me for a moment. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

“What is it you want?” he asked again. The same words, but this time, they meant something different.

Now he was listening.

Truth be told, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted—at least not in any clear, reasonable way. I barely understood his world, still reeling from the fact that it even existed. But I knew one thing: I wanted to stay in it. I wanted him—obsessed with me, tangled in me. I needed him to see me. To need me back.

Leaning into the plush cushions, I forced myself to appear calm, even as my mind spun, plotting my next move. I needed proximity. I needed consistency. I needed to be around him enough that detachment would become impossible.

I didn’t just want answers.

I wanted attachment.

“Nothing excessive—just a few deliberate hours with you each day.”

His eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering behind the red of his irises.

“That sounds dangerously open-ended,” he said, gaze never leaving mine.

I shrugged, pretending to be unaffected. “Fine. A year.”

His brow lifted. “Two months.”

“Five,” I snapped back, not even hesitating. “And I’m not budging.”

We locked eyes—stubbornness battling stubbornness in the silence that followed. But when he finally gave a small, reluctant nod, I mentally fist-pumped in victory, barely able to contain the grin threatening to bloom across my face.

“Good,” I said, smoothing my voice into something businesslike. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll need your contact so I can text you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he replied, flat.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“If you want my time,” he said coolly, “you know where to find me.”

I scowled. “You’re being deliberately difficult.”

He gave a slow shrug, clearly unbothered.

I huffed, pushing up from the couch. “Fine. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow. We start then.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t even flinch as I made my way to the door, mentally running through a checklist of everything I’d need to make sure he stayed exactly where I wanted him—close.

I may have arrived late to his world, but I always play to win.