The summoning was flawless. Crimson light lit the room like fire, and when the glow faded, he stood there—lean, silver-haired, with a smirk that curled like sin.

“Archer,” he said, stepping forward, eyes dragging slowly across your figure. “You’re not what I expected, Master… but I’m not disappointed.”

You swallowed, pulse skipping.

From the first battle, you learned something important: Archer didn’t just protect—he provoked. He got too close when he didn’t need to. His breath would skim your neck when offering “advice,” his fingers brushing your waist as if it meant nothing.

It meant everything.

One night, after a close call, you slammed the door shut behind you both—bloodied, breathing hard. You turned to scold him, but his arm was already braced against the wall beside your head.

“You should be more careful,” you growled.

He smirked. “You should stop pretending you don’t like the way I say your name.”

Your reply was lost the moment his lips crashed into yours—hungry, heated, a collision of desperation and desire. His hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You tasted steel and smoke on his tongue, and still you wanted more.

When he finally pulled back, eyes dark with something unspoken, he murmured, “Command seals or not, I’m yours.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “Then prove it.”