For the first time since I met her she looks small. Not weak—never that. But like a thing clutching at a reminder that home exists and might no longer mean anything. It bothers me more than it should. I want to make it better and I know I cannot.
“You ready to go home?” I ask, because words are things I trade when I cannot trade better.
She breathes, steadying herself. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
She moves forward like she’s shedding the weight of a whole life for a moment. I fall into step beside her, the silk and lace and scent and small conquests still clinging to the air between us. No matter how she tries to bury it, the grief is there. The hunger does not leave. The way she looks at the phone tells me more than her words ever could.
When her fingers graze my hand, the contact is quick, accidental, but it burns. Not quite the bond. Not yet. Something waking beneath the skin, sharp and bright as the edge of a blade.
I don’t say a word. I don’t have to. The truth of it sits heavy in my chest—I would kill for that pulse. I would destroy worlds for the heat it leaves behind. The thought startles me; it feels young, reckless, unguarded. The kind of feeling I should have grown out of centuries ago.
We turn down an alleyway choked in shadow, far from mortal eyes. Trash bins, damp brick, the metallic scent of rain. She looks at me expectantly, and I drag my palm through the air. The portal tears open in a low growl of gold light. The world bends inward, hungry.
“After you,” I murmur, voice rougher than I intend.
She smirks, stepping through, haloed by the shimmer. For a moment, the light paints her red—blood and glory—and I follow her in, the alley collapsing to silence behind us.
The world reshapes around us, but the weight in my chest doesn’t lift. This isn’t over. Not her grief. Not her hunger. Not us. Whatever it is between us, it’s coming. It’s just waiting for the right moment to burn.
THIRTY-FOUR
The afternoon air is crisp against my skin, cooling the heat still simmering in my veins. It should calm me, but it doesn’t. The city below glitters and moves and is utterly indifferent to the chaos that hums inside my chest. Deimos and Cassiel still aren’t back. I tell myself not to worry, but the edges of my mind fray anyway, little teeth at the hem of thought picking at me until I look hollow.
Bastion must sense it.
“Come on, Hellcat.” He nudges my shoulder, steering me away from the balcony railing. “You’re getting that pinched little look on your face. Let’s do something about it.”
I arch a brow. “Like what?”
“You’re getting antsy. I say we work off some of that energy.” He points to the open space on the balcony, a page of concrete with room to move. “Come on. I’m gonna train you.”
I cross my arms. “Train me?”
“You’re not prey anymore.” His golden eyes gleam under the city lights, as dangerous as a promise. “You’re a predator now. You should act like it.”
I smirk because the thought makes the tightness slacken for half a breath. “I do feel like a predator. Even if I’m feeling a little less ‘murdery’ than before.”
Bastion chuckles. “That’s because you’re bonded to Deimos now.”
I frown. “And that means… what?”
“Most newborn succubi struggle with control. The hunger makes them reckless.” He tilts his head, studying me like he is cataloguing prey and potential. “But you—” He searches my face. “You bonded with an incubus as strong and as old as Deimos. That means your powers will settle faster. You won’t feel the same desperate, clawing hunger that others would.”
The words land like a hand on my shoulder. I roll my shoulders, letting them sink in. The need is still there, coiled inside me like a live thing. It prowls under my ribs, breath hot against my spine. But it is not unbearable. Not like it was the first night.
Still, I bristle at the idea that Deimos is the only reason I hold it at bay. Some small, stubborn part of me wants to claim that control as mine.
“Good,” I say. “That means I can kick your ass without worrying about losing control.”
He barks out a laugh, the sound low and pleased. “That’s the spirit, Hellcat. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
We start slow. The first punch is a practice, a chime of motion. I throw it and Bastion slips past, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“You keep moving like a human,” he taunts. “You’re faster than that. Stronger than that. Stop holding back.”
The sting in his words is sharp. I grit my teeth and pivot to strike again. He catches my wrist, twisting me until my arm is behind my back and my breath spikes.
I growl and wrench against him.
