You sat still on your bed, knees drawn to your chest, the silk hem of your nightgown twisted in your fingers.

You hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes.

Silas leaned against your desk like he owned the space — because he did. One hip cocked, one hand buried in the mess of papers and sketches you’d scrawled for weeks. His other hand held your journal — open. You didn’t even try to stop him. You never did.

The room smelled like rain and wax. The storm outside crawled across the sky like something hunting.

Silas flipped a page, eyes scanning lazily.

“You wrote this one after Vienna,” he said. “When you watched the boy burn.”

You looked away.

“He cried your name. That was sweet,” he added, glancing at you.

You didn’t respond.

He closed the book with a quiet snap and set it down. Then, with the grace of something born before time had names, he crossed the room to you.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said.

You stared down at your hands. They were clean again. They always were, afterward.

Silas crouched in front of you.

His hand came to rest on your thigh — slow, deliberate, heavy like a promise. Not threatening. Not yet.

His voice dropped lower. Almost gentle.

“There’s a name on the list tonight.”

You didn’t look up.

He waited.

And when you didn’t answer, his grip on your leg tightened, just slightly. Enough for you to feel the heat pulsing from his palm. Enough for your skin to remember who it belonged to.

“You’re hesitating,” he whispered, tilting his head.

You said nothing.

He leaned in closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“You used to be so hungry, little dove.”

“I didn’t say no,” you whispered.

“But you didn’t say yes,” he replied, instantly. “And I don’t like when you forget who taught you how to want.”

His voice curled around your spine like smoke.

“You want me, don’t you?”

You nodded. Soft. Ashamed.

He smiled.

“You want me to stay?”

Another nod. Smaller.

His breath was cold where it ghosted your lips.

“Then give me what’s mine.”

You flinched — just barely — and his eyes flashed.

“You’re afraid,” he whispered. “You think this makes you human again, don’t you? The shaking hands. The silence. The guilt.”

A beat.

Then: “It doesn’t.”

He kissed the edge of your jaw. Feather-light. Final.

“You already gave me your soul, little flame. I’m just making sure you keep earning the illusion of my love.”

You froze.

He stood.

“You know where to find him,” he said, voice bored now. Cold again. “Do it by morning.”

And just before slipping into shadow, his eyes met yours.

“Because if you don’t…”

He smiled. Sweet. Cruel. Timeless.

“I’ll take someone closer.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving behind only the scent of sin — and the pressure on your thigh, like his hand was still there.