You sit in the dim light of Cirrus’s room, where everything is gold and gray, like the bones of something beautiful that died long ago.

You're silent. Your hands are shaking.

Cirrus lounges in the chair across from you, one knee draped over the other, his body the portrait of calm. Too calm. His eyes track you like something caged. Like he’s deciding which part to sink his teeth into first.

“You’re trying to leave again,” Cirrus says. Voice soft. Almost kind. Almost.

You flinch. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” He tilts his head. His hair is haloed by the lamplight. He looks like a saint. A liar. A god pretending not to bleed.

“I can’t—” you begin, then choke on the end of it. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Cirrus stands, slow and deliberate. Moves like he already owns the ground beneath you.

When he reaches you, he crouches. Doesn’t touch you. Just looks.

And that’s always worse. That still, unreadable gaze—like he’s listening to something you can’t hear. Feeling something you’re ashamed to admit.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “That’s mine, isn’t it?”

You jerk your chin away. Your pulse slams in your neck like a warning. The bond shivers—a tremor under the skin. You can feel Cirrus’s calm like weight in your own ribs. You want to scream.

“Don’t do that,” you say. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

Cirrus hums. Low. Intimate. He finally reaches out—two fingers beneath your chin, tilting it toward him. You want to pull away. You don’t.

“You dreamt about me again,” Cirrus whispers. “I felt it. I woke up hungry.”

Your breath breaks. The touch burns. Not physically—metaphysically. Like recognition. Like guilt. Like something divine laced with disease.

Cirrus leans closer, breath brushing your cheek.

“You thought I was touching you.” His voice has gone low, trembly—not with emotion, but with restraint. “But I wasn’t. You were. You wanted it so badly, your mind did it for me.”

Your nails dig into your own thighs. You want to shove him back. Kiss him. Kill him.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

Cirrus smiles, slow and brilliant—and utterly cold.

“You say that like it’s not what you came for.”

Then—without permission—he slides his hand behind your neck. The touch is gentle. Reverent. It should be kind. But it isn’t.

It’s claiming.

And something shifts. A crack in the bond—a spike, a slip. You feel Cirrus’s hunger like a hand in your throat. Cirrus feels your fear and shudders. Pleasure, shame, echo.

You gasp at the same time.

“Don’t,” you beg. But it comes out wrong. Not “don’t touch me.” Just: Don’t look at me like that. Like you own every broken part of me.

Cirrus presses his forehead to yours. His breath stutters.

“You think I want this?” he whispers. “I didn’t ask to be tied to you. I didn’t ask for your worship. Your filth.”

His hand grips the back of your neck harder—not enough to hurt, just enough to trap.

“But now I’ve got it,” he breathes. “And I can’t stop needing it.”

The bond screams. Every nerve burns with shared ache. Your mouth parts on instinct. Your body shakes, not with desire—but with knowing.

That you’ll stay.

That Cirrus won’t let you leave. Not really. That some sick part of you doesn’t want to.

“Say it,” Cirrus says. His lips brush yours. Not a kiss. A threat. A promise. A plea. “Say you’ll stay.”