The marriage was not called a union.
It was called a containment agreement.
Humans demanded security. Simurians demanded access.
And Dabura—
Dabura was the compromise.
He stood unmoving in the council chamber, towering, expression unreadable, Rolloluca coiled tightly beneath his skin like a restrained storm. The human elders spoke of borders, of curse energy bleed, of casualties.
The Simurian envoys spoke of extinction.
You stood between them.
Not as a choice.
As an offering.
“The bond will stabilize him,” one elder said quietly. “Human presence tempers Simurian aggression.”
Dabura’s gaze snapped to you.
Sharp. Alarmed.
“No,” he said immediately. “They are not a stabilizer.”
Silence fell.
“They are a person.”
That was the first time he had ever argued for anything human.
But the decision had already been made.
The marriage ceremony was brief. No affection. No vows. Only biometric seals and cursed contracts etched into reality itself. Your curse energy signature was bound to his Rolloluca—not merged, but recognized.
From that moment on, Simurian law marked you as untouchable.
From that moment on, human law marked you as his.
The quarters assigned to you were quiet. Too quiet.
Dabura stood on the far side of the room that first night, rigid, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier awaiting execution.
“I will not touch you,” he said flatly. “This arrangement does not grant me that right.”
You nodded, heart pounding. “I know.”
Hours passed.
The Simurian bond did not activate through touch.
It activated through proximity.
His Rolloluca reacted the moment you fell asleep—settling, stabilizing, humming low with unfamiliar relief. Dabura realized it with dawning horror.
You were easing him without even trying.
Days turned into weeks.
You learned the boundaries of a creature who had never been allowed to want. Dabura learned the danger of standing too close to you—how your warmth made his control slip, how even accidental brushes sent foreign sensations rippling through him.
“You should hate this,” you told him once.
“I don’t,” he replied quietly. “That is the problem.”
The first time he touched you was not planned.
A nightmare—yours. You woke shaking, breath sharp, curse energy spiking wildly. Dabura reacted instinctively, pulling you against his chest before thought could intervene.
The contact was devastating.
His hands trembled as if holding something sacred and volatile. He did not pull away. He could not.
Your breathing slowed.
His Rolloluca stabilized completely.
That night, for the first time in his life, Dabura slept.
After that, touch became… negotiated.
Careful. Rare. Necessary.
He never held you for himself.
He held you because the universe demanded it.
And when someone questioned the success of the treaty—suggested replacing you with another human—
Dabura’s response was immediate and final.
“There will be no second spouse,” he said coldly. “There will be no replacement.”
His hand found yours beneath the table, grip firm, protective.
“This peace is alive,” he continued. “And I will not allow you to threaten it.”
You felt his thumb press lightly against your skin.
The smallest touch.
The most dangerous promise.