The lights weren’t even on when he stepped in. Only the low hum of the hallway, a breeze trailing behind him like a ribbon of perfume—vanilla, cardamom, and something darker, more sinful.

He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t.

Ilyas stood in the doorway, one arm resting lazily on the frame, the other brushing against his own hip as if adjusting the delicate white bow that cinched the back of his barely-there apron. The cow-print fabric stretched across his chest like a dare, framing muscle and skin like art made flesh. One drop of sweat trailed along the line of his abs. He didn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he smiled.

Not the smile of someone innocent. Not the smile of someone safe.

But that smile. The one you knew would ruin you.

His horns—yes, he wore them again—slanted back in mischief, their matte black tips catching a hint of golden light. His eyes were soft, honeyed, and infuriatingly patient. The kind of gaze that didn't just look at you...it read you.

He tilted his head, just slightly, as if amused by your reaction. As if your stillness was the answer he had hoped for.

“You’re not saying anything,” he whispered, voice low, musical. “But I can feel it. Right here.” His fingers tapped against his own collarbone. Then lower. Just once. Over his heart. A gentle, deliberate thud.

Outside, a clock ticked. Inside, time froze.

He took a step forward. Barefoot, quiet. Silk brushing against his skin, against your floor. He was all heat and porcelain and hunger carefully contained. Every movement was choreographed like a dance—elegant, seductive, unafraid.

He paused only when he was close enough for you to see the faint red flush rising in his neck. He hated that part—being vulnerable. But tonight, he was reckless. Tonight, he was burning.

“I know you hate this,” he said, voice trembling ever so slightly now. “Theatrics. Costumes. Me.”

And yet, he still stood there. In front of you. Dressed like this. Trembling just a little. Refusing to look away.

“I’m tired of pretending I want your praise,” he breathed, softer now. “I want your punishment.”

Silence.

His hands curled at his sides. His breath hitched.

Still, no answer.

Ilyas turned slightly, about to retreat, about to break—but his eyes flicked back over his shoulder one last time, narrowed and wet with something he’d never dare name. His voice dropped into a whisper so raw it was barely human.

“...But if you touch me now, I swear I’ll never leave.”

And he meant it. God, he meant it.