You were nine when you made the deal. A childish wish spoken into the dark, sealed with a drop of blood and a whispered promise between trembling fingers. You didn’t think it would work. He did.

And now—he’s back.

You don’t recognize him at first. He’s taller, sharper, colder. The boy with dirt under his nails and secrets in his grin has become a man carved out of shadow and silence. Same eyes, though—still watching you like you belong to him.

“You called me,” he says, voice like smoke curling through your ribs. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

You try to laugh it off. Pretend it’s coincidence, pretend the pull in your chest is something ordinary.

But it isn’t.

You feel his presence like a phantom ache. When your heart skips, so does his. When you get nervous, he breathes faster. And when you touched someone else—really touched them—his rage was a pulse in your spine.

You didn’t see him that night, but you knew he was there. Watching. Waiting. Burning.

Now he’s in your doorway. Leaning against the frame like he has every right to be here.

“I felt it,” he says. No smile. Just that look—ancient and furious and hungry. “You’re giving yourself to someone who doesn’t even know what you are.”

You step back.

He steps in.

“You made a deal,” he says, low, deliberate. “Blood to blood. Soul to soul. You don’t get to walk away.”

You want to say you were just kids. That you didn’t know what it meant.

But then his hand brushes your wrist—and you feel it. The spark. The bond. The claim.

You didn’t know it would follow you into adulthood. You didn’t know he’d come back wearing it like a chain.

And now, no matter how far you run, his voice curls in your mind with every heartbeat:

If I feel what you feel… Then I’ll make sure the only thing you feel—is me