You hadn’t known where he’d gone—only that he’d vanished without a word, and the silence had carved you hollow. When he finally stumbled through the door, soaked in rain, coat torn and bloodied, your breath caught.

You barely spoke as you pulled him into the room. You cleaned his wounded arm, bandaged it carefully while he sat silently on the edge of your bed. His skin was cold. His eyes were glassy. And he smelled like wine and danger and grief.

You should have asked where he’d been. What happened.

But instead, when your hands finally stilled and you stood up to leave, he looked up at you—tired, flushed, something raw breaking through—and said, “Stay. Just for tonight. Be mine for the night.”

You swallowed, heart aching at the broken way he said it.

“I am yours,” you said quietly before you could stop yourself. You meant to say I am yours for the night, but the last part never came out.

His hand slid along your waist, slow, tentative, lower and lower. His touch made heat pool low in your stomach. You stiffened slightly—not in fear, but hesitation. Confusion. His touch lingered, but didn’t push, not yet.

“Please,” he said, voice hoarse and almost pleading. “Just let me have you tonight."

"But what about-" you swallowed. "The curse?"

"I won't kiss you."