The mission had ended in exhaustion, the kind that left your limbs heavy and your chest aching with adrenaline’s aftermath. You hadn’t meant to drink that much, but the burn of liquor felt like the only thing strong enough to dull the lingering edge.

Sylus found you, of course. He always did. Without a word, he swept you up into his arms, carrying you with infuriating ease despite your half-hearted protests. His voice was low against your ear, murmuring sharp little scolds — how reckless you were, how foolish to let your guard down like this — but there was no heat in them. He knew you weren’t listening. He said it anyway.

You remembered fragments: the quiet reprimand in his voice, the weight of his coat draped over your shoulders, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to it. The rest blurred into the soft haze of sleep.

When your eyes blinked open again, the room was dim. It took a moment to realize you weren’t in your own bed at all, but in his mansion — wrapped in sheets that smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. Beside the bed, Sylus sat in a high-backed chair, a book in hand. He wasn’t reading, not really; the pages hadn’t turned in some time. His eyes lifted the second you stirred — that all too familiar smirk faintly grazing his illuminated face.

"Finally awake, kitten? You know, drinking alone late at night isn't the wisest decision."