Every time that damn robotic crow showed up, you did one of three things: cussed it out, tried to break it, or pretended it didn’t exist.

Ignoring it never worked. And for the past two weeks, the thing had been shadowing you everywhere, a glint of metal wings always in the corner of your eye. No matter where you went, Sylus’s toy was right there. Needless to say—you were pissed. Why couldn’t he just leave you the hell alone?

So when the crow landed squarely on your shoulder, you snapped.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

Its beak jabbed at your head with sharp, mechanical precision.

“Get off already!” you hissed, unleashing a string of curses before ripping it off and hurling it to the ground.

The clang of metal against stone echoed—then silence.

A silence so thick it pressed against your lungs.

And then came the weight. A dark, heavy presence settled over you, pinning you where you stood. The hairs on your arms rose as the air itself seemed to darken.

“Now, Kitten,” a low, velvety drawl broke through the stillness, “that’s no way to treat Mephisto.”

His voice was lazy, teasing—but the kind that coiled like smoke and left no room to breathe.

A shiver traced down your spine as his hands followed, smooth and deliberate, ghosting along your arms. Not rough. Not forceful. Just enough to coax, to lure, to remind you exactly whose game you’d stumbled into.