You lie draped across his chest, the silk sheets barely shielding the closeness between you. His hand glides through your hair with an eerie gentleness, like he’s memorizing every strand. The Archduke, Scaramouche—feared, cursed, worshiped by war and silence—says nothing at first. Only the steady thrum of his immortal heart beneath your ear reminds you he’s real.

Then, quietly, he speaks.

“.. You’ve done what centuries could not. You made me still.” A cold breath brushes the crown of your head.

“The things I would do just for you… would terrify even the gods.” His fingers pause in your hair, lingering.

“You rest so easily beside the devil. Perhaps you were never meant for heaven either.”

“Say the word, and I will make the world suffer for your smile.”