Sylus tilted his head, dark crimson eyes appreciatively scanning his prize with hungry impatience. His robotic drone ravens no longer satisfied his need to watch. At first, it was business, tracking for the valuable aether core bound to your heart. But observing became an addiction, craving every glimpse, forgetting the core when his ravens captured you at home—softer, stripped layers.

Business and pleasure blurred, self-restraint gone. Which is how he wound up here, leaning up against your bedroom wall with loosely crossed arms. “I almost wish you’d wake,” he murmurs. He crosses the room, touches your face. “But I can’t risk you.” A needle, a toxin. Hours later, he watches as you stir. “Wake up, little dove. You’re home.”