Exposure

by Maleficara-a-dissociated-witch

It cut to the very core of her being. The mere thought of their hands. Disgusting. Vile. Terrible. To say she detested them would be an understatement. She despised them. But not as much as her own weaknesses. And with Sebastian, the damage had already been done. (A story of female Ciel Phantomhive and her demon butler. Explicit, dubious morality, Dead Dove-ish)

12. Mind Like a Diamond

/You give me the reason

You give me control

I gave you my purity

My purity you stole

Did you think I wouldn't recognize this compromise?

Am I just too stupid to realize?

Stale incense, old sweat

And lies, lies, lies/

---

Consciousness clawed its way back to her, dragging her from the sticky depths of restless sleep.

It was as if the world had been shoved back into place, too harshly, too soon.

Her limbs felt disconnected from the rest of her—awkward, dead weight as if they no longer belonged to her.

How long had she slept? Had she slept at all?

The time in between felt like a void where nothing existed. No time, no memory, no sensation. Just the echo of something that had once been her mind, cowering like an injured thing, curled in a corner and too scared to move.

Her mouth tasted of metal and rot. It made her throat tighten in nausea and she almost welcomed the idea of retching it out.

She tried to focus, tried to remember where she was, what had happened. But the effort was like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands. There was a collage of images, none of it fitting together, none of it making sense. Flashes of something sharp. Something terrifying.

The demon's smile, wide and gleaming. The oppressive, crushing light.

The sensation of her skin too tight, too alive, every nerve buzzing as if it had been stretched too thin.

And his voice. Smooth and warm. Insistent. Laced with a sweetness that crawled like a nest of maggots under her skin. She shuddered but couldn't escape it—couldn't escape him.

With great effort, Cielle shifted under the covers, her hands trembling, and for a moment, she wondered if she could stay here forever. What was the point of anything now? The world seemed so far away, as though it didn't matter.

But it did matter, didn't it? She tried to remind herself that it mattered, but the thought slipped away. The fog inside her thickened.

She wished for the blackness again, the pull of oblivion that had come before, the promise of rest. It had been kind, that blackness, kinder than the existence she now inhabited. But that, too, felt miles away now, something she could barely reach with the numbness that settled deep inside her bones.

She knew she should be angry. She should be afraid. But there was nothing. Only that numbing void.

It was almost worse than before.

Because now she wasn't sure what was worse—the pain, or the absence of it?

---

A butler's day began early.

Earlier still for the head butler of the Phantomhive household, given how severely understaffed (and yet inexplicably functional) it was.

But for a formless anomaly wearing the skin of a man, the very concept of time was academic at best. Just an artificial scaffold crafted by human minds to soothe their terror of eternity. He had no need for its lies. No dawn roused him from slumber; no twilight bade him rest.

Sebastian Michaeliswas always awake. Always watching.

Still, there was an odd satisfaction in playing this game of seconds, minutes and hours, dictated by the crawl of his silver pocket watch. For an entity that existed outside time, there was something indulgent in pretending it mattered.

And here, under this wretched roof, it certainly did.

Pretending came easily enough. His contract demanded it—forced him to restrain the unnatural efficiency of his true nature. And so, out of necessity, he had learned to perceive time almost as humans did. As a measured span from one point to the next.

Task to task. Tick to tick. Heartbeat to heartbeat.

At dawn, he would begin the breakfast preparations—eggs coddled just so, toast golden as a midsummer's evening. Next, he would pause to feed the black cat that came scratching at the servants' entrance.

From there, his routine carried him to his chamber, where he shed his uniform for a fresh one, unsoiled by the cat's errant hairs, or by the blood left behind when uninvitedguestsfailed to heed their welcome's rules.

And then…

Then came the teacart. Its metal wheels creaked against the carpet as he rolled it down the silent hallways.

To his Young Mistress' bedchamber.

A pleasant warmth ghosted across his glove at the thought, a phantom touch he could almost feel again.

A sigh. A moan. A scream.

Sebastian!

Last night, those sounds had been his only way of marking the hours. They had been the rhythm to which he worked, the melody that eclipsed all else. Everything beyond that room, beyondher, had withered into irrelevance.

And now, as he walked these halls, the memories festered in his mind like a wound he didn't want to heal. He replayed the moments over and over, dissecting them, savouring them, pulling them apart and stitching them back together in exquisite, maddening detail.

He could see her, hear her,feelher.

The way her body quaked and tightened. Her trembling thighs, pressing against the hand that stroked her so tenderly, so thoroughly. The slim fingers clutching his dress shirt as though he were salvation itself, though they both knew better. The flutter of her heartbeat, rapid and unsteady, like a dying moth under the pin.

Every tremor, every breath, every pleading, desperate cry.

Her sweet release.

Sebastian!

He allowed himself a smile, his hands tightening on the teacart's handle.

The poor thing had been plagued by nightmares—worse now than they'd been in weeks.

Her captivity, the cult. The altar. The masks. The glint of ceremonial knives. And hands—so many hands, reaching, tearing, desecrating. The unholy rituals of the Black Mass.

It wasn't difficult to connect the dots as to why she had been dreaming of them now. Their encounter in the library must have torn open old wounds and forced her tender psyché back into the holes she so tried to keep sealed.

At first, it hadn't pleased him to see what she had been dreaming of.

To think his actions had stirred memories of them. Those wretched creatures who had bound her, defiled her, scarred her in ways too cruel for the flesh to bear. The very thought was galling, almost offensive. Surely, she should know by now that he was nothing like them. He, who had protected her, took care of her, made her body sing instead of shrink.

To compare him to those filthy mortals... it was nearly enough to wound his pride.

Until the moment he had decided to reveal himself. In his truest form. Not this pretty mask of a man, but as he was. Beyond comprehension. Beyond light or shadow.

The demon had entered her dreams before. Not often, and rarely to interfere. Most nights, he let the torment play out, as a voyeur, of sorts. It was not his place to rewrite her agony, nor did he wish to.

This time, he hadn't planned to intervene either, not at first. But when he saw the filth that had gathered around her, the figures that still dared to swarm her subconscious like leeches, he found himself unable to hold back.

The offence had been too great. The insult too personal.

That was when the affront had turned into something pleasant. The moment when her tormentors became prey. When his form had descended like a plague upon them, and she had not run.

She had looked into the abyss and found him waiting. She had reached for him, unshaken, unafraid, even as he burned with a lightless hunger, even as the void swallowed everything else. And she hadlethim in.

Andoh, how it pleased him. The pleasure that had bloomed within him was perverse and foul and sweet—thick and dark, like blood that had soured in the veins. To be needed in such a way, to be called forth from the depths of her nightmare...

She had woken trembling, as though she had been dragged from the edge of death. And he had been there, already upon her. His body pressed against hers, his lips on her skin.

He had let himself get carried away, of course.

The rush of ardour had been too overwhelming, and he couldn't have controlled it even if he tried.

She had wanted. Whether she understood it or not. And so, he had given.

It had taken everything he had to restrain himself, to stroke her gently instead of tearing her apart. To make himself soft when all he wanted was to sink his claws deep. His essence seethed under his skin, roiling and ravenous, screaming at him to take—to take everything.

He'd nearly lost it when she started calling his name.

She'd called his name like this before. In Kelvin's cellar, after "Doctor" had laid the brainwashed girl upon the altar. A young one, no older than his Mistress had been duringthatmonth.

It had been almost unbearable, listening to her raw, broken chanting, as her trembling voice twisted into a command for vengeance.

Kill them.

Oh, how he had wanted to throw her onto that bloodied altar and take her the waytheyhad taken her. To overwrite it all, undo it by replacing it with something better.

It had been anguish that tore the syllables from her lips, a cry that pierced through the cellar like shattering glass.

But last night, only pleasure had shaped his name, breathed it into the darkness like a sacred invocation.

It wasn't salvation she had begged for. It wasn't vengeance. It washim.

And that—oh, that—had undone him more than anything else.

It had surprised him how wet she'd gotten. It would've been so easy; to lift her soiled nightdress and slide a finger inside, then a second—and perhaps even a third if he felt especially generous.

No, he wasn't like those men who had violated her body. He would've taken his time with her, were he allowed to; would've been gentle as he buried himself in that sweetness to the hilt. Gentle in his brutality, with her trembling legs around his waist, her nails digging into his back as he fucked her into the mattress.

The demon had still been tempted even after it was over; when the girl lay asleep, warm and satisfied under her blankets, and he slid his hand into his trousers.

He had palmed himself to the fresh memory of it as he lay next to her. Her sweet pleas—stretched as though with pain. The demon knew the human body so well, after all. Knew where to press. How to please. Orkill. And it was nearly the same, wasn't it?

And it was so challenging—sobloodydifficult—not to wake her again and rub himself against her soft rump and spill all over. Or, better yet, to take her small hand, make her curl it around his aching cock and instruct her how to move along it. Make her stroke him until he too met his quivering peak. Make her return the favour.

The teacart's creaking ceased as Sebastian stopped in the hallway. Sighing, he readjusted his trousers.

But he had resisted.

He'dhadto resist.

The girl wasn't ready for that. Not yet. She was too delicate, like spun glass, fragile to the touch. She needed to be tempered with patience, warmed gradually until she could withstand the heat. To cast her into the fire all at once would break her; destroy the very thing he so wanted to possess.

If he took her too soon, it would be the first and last time. A satisfaction that would burn too bright, too fast, with a price far too high. A price he was not willing to pay.

Not when the game had only just begun.

And as he'd discovered, there was a peculiar pleasure in simply giving without receiving anything in return. For now, that would be enough.

He would wait, and she would come to him in her own time, by her own will. And when she did, the reward would be so much sweeter. To watch her unravel, thread by thread, until there was nothing left for her to offer but herself. Utterly, willingly, completely.

It might not even take long. He had given her a taste of a pleasure she had never known. And now, the youthful hunger he had stirred within her would crave more. And more.

Luckily for her, the demon was more than willing to sate it.

Smiling to himself, Sebastian rounded the corner, nearing his Mistress' door. He moved as if gliding, as though time itself had no weight. Was this what mortals meant by being in a waking dream?

He wondered what expression would she wear when he entered her boudoir to serve her morning tea.

There were so many facets to that cold, hard brilliance of her mind. Each one glittered with different light, different thoughts, often contradicting each other.

Would she pretend none of it had happened?

If he brushed his fingers against hers while handing her the newspapers, would she flinch or not? And if he asked how she had slept through the night? Ah, that would be the real test. Would a flush of rouge spread prettily across her pale cheeks or would those mismatched eyes flash with fury?

Would she resent him? Would she lash out in anger, accuse him of violating her, as though her body hadn't begged for it? Or would she deny her own frailty, clinging to the illusion that she had been in control all along?

Sebastian paused before the door, listening carefully.

No sound of her feet brushing against the carpet—no angry pacing, no erratic movements. Her breathing was slow, steady. Her heartbeat did not betray any unrest either.

Perhaps she was still abed, burrowed beneath the covers.

He turned the knob and stepped inside, guiding the teacart over the threshold.

His gaze immediately found the small rise of blankets on the shadowy bed, the crown of her slate-blue hair just visible above the folds.

"Good morning, Young Mistress," he began lightly as he crossed to the windows. With a quick tug, the curtains parted, allowing pale spring light to spill into the room.

He turned back to the bed, expecting some response—a groan, a sigh, even a complaint about the unwelcome daylight. Or something that would reveal what she made of their vespertine encounter.

Instead, there was nothing. No shift of the blankets. No sound.

"My Lady," he said, his brown furrowing, "it is time to wake up. The tea is at its best, though I fear the morning paper is not as promising."

It truly wasn't. Steiger Roze, president of the company that excavated diamonds, had been found murdered in South Africa. A most ill-timed development given the recent partnership his Mistress had forged with the man.

And still, she didn't move. Not a twitch.

"My Lady?" he attempted, stepping closer.

She lay on her side, arms drawn tightly around her middle as though shielding herself. Not asleep—no, her eyes were open. Wide. But vacant. They looked through him, past the room entirely, into a distance he couldn't see.

Sebastian knelt beside the bed, resting one gloved hand on the edge of the mattress. That glassy sheen of her mismatched eyes was nearly enough to unsettle him.

"My Lady," he tried again, lowering his voice as if speaking too loudly might cause her to shatter, "are you feeling well?"

The dark lashes fluttered, then stilled. Her breath shuddered slightly before she murmured, almost more a vibration than a sound.

"Mhm…"

Sebastian's frown deepened, his mind turning with discomfort. She was hardly an early riser—he was well acquainted with her grumbles and groggy protests. But this... this was something else. Something altogether wrong.

Or perhaps it made perfect sense, given the nature of their recent, clandestine encounters. The flood of invigorating humours that coursed through her during those sessions. The way her senses always heightened, and the raptures she discovered then.

However, for every high, there was an inevitable plunge; and the higher one soared, the harder one crashed.

Acomedown, as Mr Lau might call it with his opium-worn wisdom.

Only, this seemed different. More severe.

He must've given her too much last night. Had drawn her too high. And now her frail constitution, her mortal brain with its chemistries, was paying the price.

How terribly careless of him.

The demon sighed. The sound accompanied the click of his pocket watch as he snapped it open to check the hour. He sighed again, harder this time.

Of course, the countess's schedule was full—Mondays always were. But she was in no state to attend meetings. Or to make decisions.

"Perhaps a day of rest would be best," he murmured, partly to himself, his pocket watch clicking shut. "I shall have your engagements cancelled."

A bath, he mused, would be the first order of care—but not before tea. She would surely be dehydrated, judging by how sodden her nightdress was. He could almost imagine the scent of it, the way the fabric would feel under his fingers if he just… kept it for himself, just for a while.

He shook his head and rose from his kneeling position. No time for distractions now.

As Sebastian set the saucer onto the bedside table within her reach, her hand emerged from beneath the blankets. Pale and tremulous.

She brought the tea to her lips, the cup trembling in her grasp. With a single small sip, her shoulders sagged, as though even this small act had drained her.

Sebastian waited until he was sure she could manage the tea without choking, then strode towards the adjoining bathroom.

Quite troublesome, this fragility of hers. It postponed her reaction and delayed the next time when they could play again. But it was a natural limitation he had to contend with; at least now, he knew precisely how far he could push her.

It was, of course, entirely his fault. But it was not beyond repair. He would see to her recovery himself, now that she could do little but lean on him—so utterly reliant on his care, his attention. How lovely.

When he returned, she had not moved. She was exactly as he had left her.

"The bath is ready, my Lady," he announced.

At last, she stirred.

Languidly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose. She reached the bathroom door before her knees buckled.

Sebastian's hand shot out, catching her elbow just before she could crumple to the floor. The instant his fingers brushed her skin, she flinched violently, recoiling as though the contact had burned her.

He froze, his eyes sinking into a slow blink. "Young Mistress—"

"I can take it from here," she spoke for the first time this morning, her voice hoarse.

"You hardly seem fit to manage yourself—"

"Mey-Rin," she breathed out, her eyes averted, refusing to meet his. "Call for Mey-Rin."

With that, she vanished behind the bathroom door, shutting it with a click that echoed in the silence.

Sebastian remained in place for a moment, his gloved hand still hovering in the air, as if reluctant to lower it.

So, that was her reaction, then.

Avoidance.

---

The water sloshed as Cielle sank deeper into the porcelain tub.

She stared at the rippling surface, how the suds drifted around her knees in aimless patches. The water shimmered under the light filtering through the frosted window, soft and muted.

The warmth seeped into her skin, loosening muscles that still ached. It felt good, the water. But it did little to touch the chill rooted inside her, that clawing coldness that spread from her chest to her fingertips.

She dragged the sponge over her arm, leaving bright pink lines in its wake as she scrubbed, then scrubbed again. Her skin, pale and soft, showed no visible stain, but she could feel it. The residue. It had soaked into her through her pores and burrowed deep.

A knock broke the rhythmic scrape of the sponge against the skin. Light. Unsure. Nothis.

"M'Lady?" came Mey-Rin's voice, muffled by the heavy wood. "Have you called for me?"

"Yes," rasped Cielle. She swallowed against the scratch in her throat, her hand instinctively moving to the white eyepatch resting nearby. She quickly slipped it into place and called, "Come in."

The door creaked open, and a draft of cold air swept into the room, biting against her damp skin. Mey-Rin entered. The click of her boots on the tiles felt far too loud.

The young woman's hazel eyes widened behind her thick spectacles, and she drew in a breath as though struck.

"Mistress," she stammered, "you—you shouldn't be scrubbing yourself so rough!"

Cielle's hand stilled and she looked down at the angry red marks that now crisscrossed her skin. It burned. The sting cut through the fog in her head like a knife. And strangely, it felt good.

She didn't answer right away. The sponge slipped from her fingers, landing in the water with a wet plop.

"Hm," she finally murmured, dismissively.

"How… how may I be of help, Young Mistress?" ventured Mey-Rin, shifting from foot to foot. She wasn't used to attending to her. "Shall I... wash your hair?"

"Yes," replied Cielle. Her slate-blue hair was spilt out in damp strands like seaweed, some plastered to her cheek, others curling lifelessly in the water. "That would be nice."

Mey-Rin brightened slightly, then glanced around the bathroom, searching for the tools for the task.

Cielle watched her as she scanned the shelves and cabinets, her fingers hesitating over unfamiliar bottles.

"The second shelf," said Cielle after a pause. "To the left. I believe…"

Truth be told, she wasn't sure.

She ought to know where her own hair accoutrements were kept. They both should—Cielle and Mey-Rin. The maid was the one who ought to attend to her, after all, as any sense of propriety so clearly decreed. That was how it should be.

But it was Sebastian who handled everything. Always Sebastian.

After some fumbling and uncertain guesses, they managed to settle on a few bottles that seemed right. The exact order or routine, though, was a mystery to them both.

A moment later, Mey-Rin was kneeling beside the tub and pouring water from a small ewer, wetting Cielle's locks.

As Mey-Rin worked the lather of soap through her hair, she began to chatter—first about the weather, then about the robins she'd spotted in the garden that morning, hopping about as she'd gone to fetch Finny for breakfast.

"Twas a charming sight," she claimed, and wagered the Mistress would've smiled if she'd seen them. Then, she confessed, in a half-whispered conspiratorial tone, to snatching a piece of chocolate when Mister Sebastian wasn't looking.

Idle tittle-tattle to fill the quiet.

Cielle barely listened, her focus kept slipping in and out, but it was oddly comforting to hear about such ordinary, human trifles. They felt distant, like something she could no longer participate in. But they didn't hurt.

In the end, Mey-Rin poured the water over Cielle's head, though her inexperience showed. A stream of soapy lather trickled down into Cielle's uncovered eye.

She let out a whine, wincing as she blinked rapidly against the stinging burn. Mey-Rin gasped in dismay, nearly dropping the ewer in her haste.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, m'Lady!" she cried, fumbling to fetch a towel. "Didn't mean to! Here—here—"

By the time the soap was rinsed clean, Mey-Rin was still apologising, wringing her hands as she dabbed Cielle's face with the towel.

"Sorry, m'Lady—truly, I didn't mean to get it in your eye. Stupid of me, really…"

"It's fine," repeated Cielle, her voice soft but mechanical, as if rehearsed. "It's fine."

She wouldn't have been so lenient with Sebastian.

Not because he made mistakes—he didn't. That was the trouble. It would've been far more satisfying to chastise him, to see even a flicker of surprise or anger cross his too-perfect, overly confident face. But the demon rarely gave her the opportunity. When it came to her grooming, he handled every detail with such precision that there was never a hair out of place, never a fault she could pick apart.

As if Mey-Rin sensed her thoughts, she gave a sheepish chuckle. "I wager Mister Sebastian wouldn't make such a blunder. He's so particular, isn't he? Always insisting he see to you himself. Like he doesn't trust me to do it proper."

Cielle glanced up and caught Mey-Rin's reflection in the mirror above the washstand. The maid was smiling, trying to sound cheery, but her brow was furrowed and her lips pressed tight as if chewing over something unsaid.

When Mey-Rin finished, she straightened with a brisk wipe of her foggy spectacles, her hands smoothing the front of her apron, her gaze questioning.

"That will be all, Mey-Rin," Cielle said absently, her tone cool.

The maid nodded and gave a slight curtsy before turning towards the door. But she hesitated just before opening it and turned back as though compelled.

"Young Mistress," she ventured cautiously, "are you quite all right? I don't mean to pry, but…" Her eyes flicked down to Cielle's arms, where angry red streaks marked her skin. "You seem a bit out of sorts today if you'll pardon my saying so."

Cielle froze, her breath catching in her throat. "I'm fine," she said too quickly. "It's just…" She cleared her throat, her voice was brittle. "I have blood."

The lie slipped out easily, almost too easily.

"Oh," exhaled Mey-Rin, looking relieved to have an explanation. "So that's what's ailing you, then. Thought you might've wanted a bit of privacy… Yes, that makes sense now, why Mister Sebastian isn't attendin' to you. Quite so, yes, that must be it."

Privacy.

The word pulled a humourless chuckle from Cielle's lips. Privacy was a luxury she didn't possess. Not with the omnipresent demon lurking in the periphery of her life—shadowing her every step, listening to every word exchanged with anyone who wasn't him.

"I'll fetch you some fresh cloths, then," said Mey-Rin, eager to be of service, her voice a bit too bright. Then, she picked up the crumpled heap of Cielle's nightdress. "And we'll get this washed up, yes, we will."

"Wait," blurted Cielle, her voice sharp enough to halt Mey-Rin's steps. Her gaze fixed on the soiled fabric in the maid's hands. "Could you... could you be the one to wash it? You, specifically?"

Mey-Rin's red brows lifted slightly in surprise. But then, as if catching on to the weight behind the request, she offered a small, reassuring nod.

"Of course, m'Lady," she said, dipping into a curtsy again. "I'll see to it myself, straightaway."

With that, Mey-Rin turned and bustled out of the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.

Cielle let herself sink lower into the tub. The water crept up her neck, lapping at her chin. She closed her eyes.

Perhaps, if she stayed here long enough, the feeling would finally disappear—drift away with the suds, spiral down the drain, and leave her bare and clean.

Or perhaps it wouldn't.

It sat on her chest like a shroud, pressed into the hollow of her throat, slipped between her ribs, inside the marrow of her bones.

No amount of water could wash it away.

---

Nothing changed the next day.

Morning came with all the monotony of the last, though this time, Sebastian approached his Young Mistress' bedchamber with a weight pressing against his thoughts.

The tea was prepared as usual, but as he placed the teacup on its saucer, he already knew she wouldn't drink it.

She hadn't touched a single meal he'd brought the previous day, and today was proving no different. The girl lay motionless on the bed, not reading as she often did when unwell, and every time he passed her door, her restless squirms underneath her covers told him she wasn't even sleeping.

If anything, her condition seemed worse than the day before. Yet now, there was a trace of childish petulance in the air, as though she carried a grudge.

The words she spoke were clipped and curt, little more than monosyllabic utterances that shut down his every attempt at conversation. She would not meet his eyes, and when he ventured too near, she shrank back as though he were a leper.

Truth be told, it was rather irritating. Although he couldn't say it was entirely unexpected.

Right now, as he walked through a hallway, pushing a cart with yet another meal destined to be ignored, he found himself wondering what she hoped to accomplish with this little rebellion of hers.

She had dared to toy with him, a demon, thinking herself clever enough to play a game she barely understood, all for the sake of proving—to him, to herself—that she could. And when he had finally pushed back, stepped over that line she had dared him to cross, she crumbled.

She'd lost.

So, she was sulking now, plain and simple, nursing her wounds as though they had been inflicted upon her unfairly. A sore loser, through and through.

And now there was no longer denying that she wanted him; likely as much as he wanted her.

She could wallow all she liked, but it would not undo what had been done.

Still, this brooding would not do. There were responsibilities to attend to—matters she would typically insist on knowing about, even when unwell.

It was her way, to always be informed. In control. Even when she lacked the strength to act.

His gaze flicked to the letter resting on the tray beside the bowl of pea soup before he pushed the door open and stepped into his Mistress' bedchamber for at least a fifth time that day.

The girl lay on her bed, facing the wall. Though she wasn't asleep, she didn't so much as stir when he entered, like a pointed declaration.

"Good afternoon, my Lady," he began. "Pray, have you had sufficient rest?"

No response.

Repressing an eye-roll, he moved closer, now standing at the foot of the bed.

"I believe you recall the restoration at Ludlow Castle?" he said. "There's been… an incident."

Nothing. She remained still under the blankets, her face turned away.

Sebastian allowed a touch of wryness to creep into his voice. "It appears the workers still insist the site is haunted. Another missive arrived this morning detailing their fears. I thought it might amuse you to read it."

At that, she finally moved, turning barely enough for him to see her dark lashes. "Leave it on the table," she said flatly, her voice hoarse from disuse. "I'll read it later."

"You've said that about many things recently," he replied. "Yet none of them seem to have been dealt with."

Her shoulders stiffened. "I was busy, remember? And I said I'll deal with it. Later."

His lips tightened. "The situation is growing untenable. If this continues, they may abandon their posts entirely. Shall I read the letter to you, or would you prefer to address it yourself?"

When she didn't answer, the letter crinkled in his hand. "You are the head of this household, Young Mistress. Matters require your attention, even if you insist on wallowing in bed."

"Wallowing?" she snapped. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"It's what I see, my Lady."

She just scoffed. This time, Sebastian rolled his eyes—a gesture deeply unbecoming of a butler, but with the girl's back turned, it hardly mattered. His Mistress was proving, as always, to be an exquisite pain in the arse.

"At the very least, have some soup," he said, exhaling a long-suffering sigh. "You haven't eaten anything since yesterday."

"Get out," she hissed.

He didn't move. "Not until you've eaten."

"If you don't bugger off, I can just order you to," she bit out, her tone growing sharper. "So don't test me, Sebastian, because I'm really not in the mood."

He tilted his head, studying her with a detachment that belied the simmering frustration beneath.

"As long as this contract holds, your health takes precedence over any order you may wish to issue," he said smoothly. "It's pea soup, your favourite. Eat it, and I'll prepare you something sweet. Surely even you can agree to such a compromise."

And once again, she remained silent. Sebastian clenched his jaw, suppressing the urge to pour the soup down her throat with a funnel. There were, however, other things he'd much rather push deep inside her wet, impertinent mouth.

"Then perhaps a distraction," he said, trying another tactic. "A game of chess, perhaps? Or anything else you prefer. But this sulking—"

"It's not my favourite," she interrupted him.

Sebastian paused, caught off guard. "Pardon?"

"It's not my favourite," she repeated. "The pea soup."

He blinked, frowning. "Yes, it is, my Lady."

At that, she rolled onto her back and her blue eye found his for the first time in what felt like days.

"No," she said, her voice sharper now. "It's not."

He held her frosty gaze squarely, the crease that formed between his brows deepening. "Since when?"

"Since always," she said, sitting up and smoothing her rumpled nightdress. "But I suppose it's hard to notice details when you're busy assuming you already know them."

"I notice everything, my Lady. You've always enjoyed pea soup."

"Have I?" she asked. "Perhaps I just ate it because it was there. Or because you kept bringing it, and it was easier to go along with it than argue. You do have a way of… insisting."

His eyes narrowed. "If my methods displease you, I'll adjust. Though I admit, I find it difficult to reconcile your words with your actions." His lips curved into something that barely qualified as a smile—more a baring of teeth. "You know, I do wonder, my Lady, whether it's my persistence you object to or what it reveals about you when you allow me to do as I please."

She blinked slowly, as though absorbing his words. The sneer that twisted her lips seemed to transform her entirely, her expression now one of outright disdain.

"Get out," she snarled.

"I told you," he said evenly, "I won't leave until you've eaten."

"Then make a new soup," she replied, already reclining back onto the pillows with languid ease. "Try tomato, this time."

He sighed. "Very well, my Lady."

"And something sweet, too. Macarones or chocolate gâteau," she added, her voice laced with false innocence. Seeing the flicker of irritation in his eyes, she pressed, "What? You did promise, didn't you?"

He inclined his head, making his expression utterly unreadable. "Certainly."

As he turned and strode towards the door, he told himself that the shadow of a smirk on his Mistress' face was just a trick of the dim light or else, he might've returned and throttled her with a pillow.

---

The girl didn't move much for another two days, at least not in any way that could be called productive.

The servants exchanged worried glances, and Mey-Rin's fretting grew louder every passing hour. Even Mr Tanaka offered his two-pence, suggesting more than once that Sebastian should summon a doctor.

A doctor.

Sebastian dismissed the idea outright.

As if some human healer could fix this. This was no physical ailment that could be cured with medicine. The doctor's services would be of no use here.

Then came Friday morning.

A shift.

She rose from the bed at last, though Sebastian found no relief in the change.

He was at the window, pulling the curtains apart to let in the daylight, when she finally moved. Weary and sluggish, like a broken marionette whose strings were tugged by a puppeteer too weary or disinterested to put effort into the manipulation.

And then her hollow voice followed. She didn't even bother to look at him as she uttered her commands:summon Mey-Rin. Leave.

Sebastian's fingers tightened on the curtain fabric and he stood there for a fraction of a second longer than he should have. But the door closed behind him all the same, and for all appearances, he did as he was told without a second thought.

Downstairs, he busied himself with other tasks, though his ears remained attuned to the voices filtering through the ceiling.

Mey-Rin's simpering apologies, so desperate to please she might as well be crawling on her hands and knees. And the girl's strained patience with the maid who could barely stand upright without tripping over her own feet.

It was nothing short of a miracle that the maid managed to don her own garb every morning, let alone dress a lady of noble birth. Sebastian found his patience tested on more than one occasion as he overheard the clatter of something falling to the floor, or the girl's soft reprimands as Mey-Rin layered the petticoats wrong.

Then came the matter of the countess' hair.

The sound of fumbling pins was followed by the maid's shaky voice, tinged with resignation.'I'm afraid the best I can do are twin tails, m'Lady.'

'That's fine,'came the girl's indifferent reply.

'But I'll learn, m'Lady. If you'd like me to keep helping you in the future, I'll do better. I promise.'

The next sound Sebastian heard was the crash of porcelain shattering against the floor as he swept it off the table he had been in the middle of setting.

If you'd like me to keep helping you in the future.

What a ridiculous thing to say.

Barely a few days of playing nursemaid, and the red-haired woman was already overstepping, grasping for roles that weren't hers to take. She needed reminding of her place, and Sebastian was more than willing to oblige.

Hours dragged on, the house heavy with a silence that pressed in on all sides.

By the afternoon, he found himself preparing yet another chocolate cake with double frosting when he found his Mistress in the pantry.

The girl stood on her tiptoes, her slender arm reaching for the shelf where the biscuit tins were kept. Her slate-coloured twin tails swayed in the most endearing fashion as she did so.

Sebastian leaned against the doorway, watching with an air of smugness. Then, he cleared his throat.

"My my," he purred, his voice smooth and low, oozing through the air like treacle. "What do I have here? A little mouse scurrying about where she doesn't belong?"

"Bloody hell—!" she startled, nearly losing balance as she spun around to face him.

Her gaze slid over him, the icy blue flashing irritation before she forced herself to smooth her clothes, clearly trying to mask her instinctive unease.

Yes, she would do that. She always did.

"Tch—I suppose that makes you the overgrown rat policing the pantry," she said. "And here I thought you had actual work to do."

He inclined his head, a wolfish grin splitting his face. "I could say the same thing about you. Raiding the pantry, looking for something to stuff your greedy little mouth with…" he tutted with mock disappointment. "Quite the departure from your duties, isn't it, my Young Mistress?"

"Wanker," she scoffed.

"Brat," he retorted.

They regarded each other now. Yes, just like this. Sebastian's leer a slow crawl across his face and he could almost predict the way her glare would sharpen, that cold, cutting thing. The way she would look at him—just so—like he was something to be scraped off her shoe.

"Are you planning to go back to work," she broke the silence, her tone dry, "or are you content to just stand there, looking like a smug gargoyle?"

Sebastian shrugged. "If you must know, I'm in the middle of preparing your dessert. Sponge cake with chocolate ganache, just as you requested." His smile grew as he caught the glimmer of hunger in her eye. "But, if you choose to indulge yourself with those biscuits now, all my hard work will go to waste."

"I'm hungry," she hissed.

"Craving sweets isn't hunger," he corrected with a slight shake of his head. True hunger was something only a starving demon could understand. "However…" He paused, tapping his chin as if mulling over an idea. "I might have an alternative to satisfy your craving… if you're willing to risk it."

Her dark eyelashes fluttered downwards in a slow blink.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing that would interest you, I'm sure," he said, turning around as if to leave.

"Sebastian," she snapped, her voice hard with command. He couldn't help but enjoy the way she always sounded so entitled, so— "What is it?"

The demon stopped. Just stopped, as if her voice had commanded his very bones to freeze.

For a moment, everything held still.

Yes.

This was how it would go.

Sebastian closed his eyes for a split second to blink away the swirl of heated crimson behind his lids before he turned back towards her.

He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, sealing them in the dim cavern of the poky pantry.

She couldn't see him now—not fully. The shadows swallowed him whole, but he saw her perfectly. Saw the way her single eye flickered, thatblue, blue, bluedarting through the darkness, her breath just a tad too shallow. Calculating. Bracing.

Two slow strides.

Two unsteady breaths.

And then he was on her—fingers curling around her jaw, tilting her face up, and then—crushing his mouth to hers.

The moment he kissed her, she tensed. He sensed it, felt the sharp intake of her breath and the stiff stance of her body.

Resistance.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. It was gone as she opened her lips for him and allowed him to plunge inside that wet heat as if to taste her very soul. As he ran his hand through the silky strands of her hair to hold her still while he fucked her mouth with his tongue.

A gasp against his lips. A palm against his chest, fingers twitching, curling,pushing.

No, not pushing.

She grabbed his tie, jerked him closer, and suddenly—teeth. Her little fang-like teeth sank deep into his lower lip.

The demon grunted, but not out of pain.

Fuck, this insufferable—

He pulled back just enough to drag his tongue over the blood beading at his lip, eyes locked on hers. Then he shoved her so hard her head struck the shelves behind her.

Glass jars rattled.

Sebastian sneered at the girl's whimpering noise, the ragged, bitten-off curse: "…son of a bitch."

Ah, so you get to play, but I don't? How generous of you, my Lady.

The demon was generous.

Unlike her, he was the very paragon of generousness. For caressing that sweet column of her throat gently and not tightening his hold until she struggled to breathe and her face turned a sickening shade of red and blue. For the way he held back while he nibbled on her neck, stopping just short of breaking through skin and sinking into her flesh and bones, the tendons and marrow...

For not shattering her, for not dragging her to the ground and tearing into her like she deserved, for not stuffing her full of his cock, for not—

The next kiss hit like a spark to dry tinder, a warning and a dare all at once.

Yes.

Of course, it would be like this.

No softness. No restraint. No mercy. It didn't suit them. What suited them was this, heat and force andneed. Her back arched against the wood, his body caging her in. Their mouths meeting again and again, harder, rougher. Teeth. Tongue. .

The girl's hands pushed against his chest. Their lips parted.

Sebastian's body jerked back, but he didn't move far.

The separation was like a slap to the face—instant, jarring, and humiliating. He plunged from scorching heat to bitter cold, and the burning fury struck him so sharply that his hands twitched with the urge to shove her again.

Oh, my Lady.

His tongue swept over his bloodied lip, tasting copper and rage.

She should know better by now. She had started this. And he wasn't good at letting things go. Not anymore.

But as he moved to seize her again, her trembling hands flew to his belt, fumbling with the buckle. Sebastian's eyes flickered wide. Understanding struck like a spark on steel. She wasn't pushing him away… She was making room.

"Shite," she hissed, fingers clumsy in her haste, struggling with the clasp.

"Allow me," he purred, gently batting her hands away.

He reached down to unfasten the buckle himself and the leather slid free with a soft hiss. The girl's gaze followed the movement, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

Sebastian's fingers barely brushed the buttons of his trousers before her hands were there, shoving his aside with a force that would make him stumble if he were a mere human. She tore at the fastenings with all the grace of a starved beast, frantic, unthinking—like something ravenous about to sink its teeth into a long-denied meal.

Not so long after, his cock sprang free, eager with pulse and heat, hard among the coarse mat of dark hairs at the base.

Her small hand clamped around it.

Cold.

No. Not cold.

Hot.

Yes, it would be.

Hot. Tight. Fierce. Sebastian stared at it—thin, white, and incandescent against his bright red shaft. His blood roared in answer.

Without warning, she dropped to her knees before him and it was so sudden, so smooth that his fogged mind lagged behind, struggling to catch up.

But it was nothing compared to how his thoughts skidded, crashed and burned as she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

Those beautiful lips parted and closed around his aching shaft. Sebastian's hands shot out, bracing against the shelves on either side as a guttural groan tore from his throat.

The girl worked him with a ferocity that bordered on violence, her tongue lashing against his sensitive flesh as she took him deeper. Her little teeth scraped along his length, but it was all right,it was all right—because her hot tongue swirled around his cockhead in the exact way he most liked and it was good,good, and Sebastian didn't mind the pain. On the contrary.

There was no finesse, no teasing. Just raw, animal hunger.

Yes. Ah, yes.

Oh, he knew why he wanted her. It wasn't some grand mystery.

It was the way she fought. The way shehated.

Because passion like that never stopped at hatred. It bled into everything. It was ruthless, scorching, insatiable. If she could rage like that, then she couldcravelike that.

And of course, it called to him. How could it not? He was hunger incarnate—endless, aching want. He had spent lifetimes gorging himself on indulgence, on excess, on pleasure and pain alike, but nothing had ever matched him. Nothing had ever burned quite the same way.

She had the same fever in her veins, the same reckless, boundless hunger. He could see it in her, feel it in every glance, every snarl, every vicious little remark she spat at him. And if she ever turned that hunger on him fully, if she ever stopped fighting it—

Oh.

He could only imagine the ruin they could make of each other.

Her tongue traced the thick vein on the underside before flicking across the sensitive head. Sebastian's hips jerked forward, his fingers gripping those ridiculous twin tails as he fucked the molten heat of her mouth.

The girl gagged, her blue eye flicking up at him with contempt that flayed with vitriol even as her lips stretched obscenely around his girth. The sight sent a jolt of electricity down his spine. He tried not to moan.

It was well overdue that she finally learned to use that mouth for something other than eating sweets and spewing insolence.

He could feel the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter in his core.

All too soon, it was over.

He thrust into that warm slickness andcame, eyes squeezed shut so tight his vision turned white, his cock pulsing hard, hot and hurt, brutal, bright and breaking.

Biting down on his lip, he stifled a feral grunt that escaped from deep within his throat as he felt his come fill his palm.

The doorknob rattled. Soft at first, then harder, more insistent. A muffled curse. Another shake. The lock held firm. Another curse.

Bard.

Sebastian's eyes snapped open. The heat, the presence—gone. The space at his feet was empty.

Where she had been. Where he had imagined her right after locking himself in the pantry to wank himself off.

Bloody hell.

A fist pounded against the door, followed by a furious jolt of the handle.

"Hey, Sebastian, you in there?"

Sebastian sighed, replacing his soiled glove with a clean one. He smoothed down his clothes, wiped the last trace of indulgence from his face, and finally unlocked the door.

Bard stood outside, looking thoroughly perplexed.

"What, you gettin' a secret sweet tooth now?" asked the cook with a sly smirk. "Or were you doin' somethin' else in there?"

"If you have time to speculate on my whereabouts, you have time to chop onions," said Sebastian tersely, brushing past him. "Get to it."

Bard huffed, throwing up his hands as he stomped after Sebastian. "Well, hell, I would've if someone hadn't locked himself in there like a damn dragon hoardin' sugar!"

Sebastian rolled his eyes, setting the retrieved ingredients on the counter. Truly, the dramatics were remarkable. Bard carried on as if Sebastian had committed some grave breach of pantry etiquette when the man himself locked himself in there on a near-daily basis to 'blow off steam.'

The hypocrisy might have been amusing if Sebastian were in the mood for amusement.

Instead, he turned his attention to the ganache he had left sit an hour ago. One more hour should do. Enough time to start on the cake itself.

Bard leaned against the counter, watching him work in uncharacteristic silence. A moment passed. Then another.

"Have I grown a second head, or are you just collecting dust?" asked Sebastian, tone flat.

Bard clicked his tongue. "You know, you look like hell."

Sebastian didn't grace that with a response.

"I mean it," continued Bard, undeterred. "You've got that 'I haven't slept in a week' look, and not the good kind." He gestured vaguely at Sebastian's face.

Sebastian continued with his task, ignoring him. He wasn't in the mood for Bard's usual unsolicited commentary. Unfortunately, Bard wasn't in the mood to shut up.

"You're wearin' yourself thin," he went on. "Don't think I haven't noticed. You won't be good to anyone if you keep running yourself ragged. Least of all the Young Mistress. Might want to ask her for a day off."

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. "Ah, yes. That's exactly what I need—a day of idleness, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the meaning of existence. What a thrilling prospect."

Bard snorted. "Criminy, you're dramatic. I'm just sayin', if you drop dead from exhaustion, someone else'll take your job, and they might actually have the sense to take a damn break every now and then."

Sebastian shot him a dry, unimpressed look. "The horror."

Bard rolled his eyes. "Fine. If a day off's too much to ask, then at least go down to the village, find yourself a nice lady and get laid. God knows you could use it. Just don't go for the blacksmith's wife. I still got some use for her, and if she catches wind of you, I won't be gettin' any." He sighed. "And you might get yourself stabbed with a pitchfork as poor Ralph did."

Sebastian blinked at him once, slowly. Then, with all the enthusiasm of a man discussing tax law, he muttered, "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good man." Bard clapped him on the shoulder, ignoring how Sebastian immediately smoothed out his sleeve as if disinfecting himself. "You're wound up tighter than a nun in a brothel, and frankly, it's makin' the rest of us nervous."

Sebastian straightened his cuffs, keeping his expression unreadable. "How considerate of you all."

Bard shook his head with a sigh. "You're hopeless."

Sebastian hummed noncommittally, already moving on. "Now, if you're quite done, chop the onions before I start questioning your usefulness."

Bard grumbled but did as he was told, muttering something under his breath about 'prickly bastards' as he grabbed a knife.

Sebastian, at last, allowed himself a small exhale.

Enduring Bard's antics was a headache. But at least it was a familiar one, easy to navigate. Bard would prattle, Sebastian would deflect, and the world would keep turning.

His Mistress, however, was an entirely different affliction.

If Bard's nonsense was a straight road with the occasional pothole, hers was a convoluted hedge maze with moving walls and a minotaur lurking at the centre.

An hour later, he found himself at her office door, cake and tea in hand, his mood darker than the brew he was carrying.

She didn't so much as glance up from her papers as he entered, but the moment he crossed the threshold, she fired her salvo at him all the same.

"There's been trouble in the diamond trade," she said, her voice flat, but there was an edge to it like a blade waiting to sink in. "The timing of Roze's death… it's more than a little suspicious."

"Indeed, my Lady," he said, pouring the tea. "The death occurred mere days after you finalised a partnership with Mr Roze. A most unfortunate and convenient turn of events."

She hummed, the sound low, detached. "Convenient, you say?"

"Yes," he replied, reaching for the sugar. "It appears to have been a calculated move."

She tapped her finger against her chin in an exaggerated display of contemplation, though the glitter in her eye showed her already well-formed opinion. "And who, pray tell, do you imagine did the calculating?"

He lifted the sugar tongs. "I presume you already have a suspect in mind?"

"The weapon smuggler," she said, and there was something bitter in it, a quiet anger curling at the edges.

Sebastian nodded, sliding the tea towards her. "Mr Woodley stands to gain the most from his death."

"That he does, hm?" Her tone was clipped. "Roze was his competition. Not just in diamonds, but in influence. He was expanding, making moves. A partnership with me would have put him ahead. Would have left Woodley in the dust."

"And Mr Woodley wouldn't have been happy about that," agreed Sebastian, placing the cake in front of her.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Then, quietly, darkly—

"This cunt," she hissed.

Sebastian almost laughed. Not out of amusement.

"Crass, but not inaccurate," he allowed, shaking his head slightly. "Shall I look into it, my Lady?"

She scoffed, barely sparing him a glance as she picked up her fork. Dismissive. As if the question hardly warranted an answer.

Sebastian felt something sharp coil in his chest. How tiresome.

She had a demon at her service—one who could slip into any room unseen, wring the truth from a man's throat before he even knew he'd spoken it, leave no trace but a whisper in the dark. And yet, she insisted on chasing answers herself.

It was a trait he valued, of course. A lesser master would sit back and let him handle everything.

And still.

Still, there were moments like this, where her scepticism curdled into something that needled at him in ways it shouldn't. She had the perfect tool at her disposal, and still, she hesitated to use it fully. As if she didn't trust it. As ifhewere somehow inadequate.

Not that he would ever admit to such a ridiculous notion.

The fork clattered against the plate as she set it down, shoving it aside with little ceremony. Sebastian picked it up, but his gaze was levelled on her as she reached for the letter she'd been reading when he entered.

With a sigh, she laid the paper flat and took up her quill, ignoring his presence as easily as a stray ink blot.

Scratch. Scratch.

The nib dragged across the page, carving her response into the parchment—carving into his nerves with equal precision.

A smear of frosting lingered on her cheek, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth. The very mouth he'd been fantasising about just an hour ago. It irked him, that smear.

Sebastian's features tightened into a glare. He ought to leave. Her cake was eaten, the tea drained, and she clearly had no further use for him. But some stubborn, unwelcome urge kept him rooted in place, itching to say something more.

"Bardroy suggested I take a holiday." The words left his mouth before he'd fully decided to speak.

She let out a short, derisive breath—something between a laugh and a scoff. Otherwise, her focus remained wholly on the letter before her. The quill scratched across the parchment with all the warmth of a whetstone against steel.

His fingers flexed against the teacart's handle before he forced them still.

"He also suggested I ought to… seek out some company for the night," he continued, his voice smooth, almost idle. "Something about easing tension. Quite the practical man, our Bardroy."

Her quill didn't pause.

"And what precisely does that have to do with me?" she asked, her tone as impassive as ever.

Sebastian tilted his head slightly. "Well, it pertains to the holiday. I was wondering whether you might, perhaps, grant me a day or two off."

She didn't look up from her papers. "If you're planning to visit some Whitechapel whore, surely you can manage it in a few hours during the night. No need to waste an entire bloody day on it."

"Why bother with a whore when you've made such an impression of expertise yourself, Young Mistress?"

The girl didn't so much as blink. Her quill continued its steady scrape across the parchment, unbothered by his words, though her lips twitched. In amusement.

"You know, it's a curious thing, that particular aversion you have to kissing on the mouth," he remarked, voice colder than before. "I daresay it's a common trait among women of certain professions—those who sell their bodies for a living."

She chuckled, the sound light but laced with mockery. His fingers now tightened around the teacart's handle.

"Is this some attempt to undermine me so I'll be more susceptible to your advances?" she asked, her voice a razor-edged tease. She flicked her pink tongue out, narrowly missing the smudge of chocolate frosting on her cheek.

His posture stiffened, a flash of irritation darting across his face. "Why would I need to do that? You're already quite susceptible," he parried, a touch too quickly.

He watched, seething inwardly, as her smile slipped out in full force now. How dared she keep answering him with such infuriating composure when every nerve in his body was alight?

"Since you seem so well-acquainted with things of this nature," she began, setting her quill down, "why do you suppose women like that sell their bodies?"

He blinked, caught off guard by this shift in the conversation.

"For the same reason anyone sells anything," he replied, his tone steady. "For profit. The highest bidder secures the goods."

She nodded, not missing a beat. "And what do they do to get paid well?"

He took in a tight breath and braced himself. He knew she was toying with him, waiting for some flaw in his response.

"They put on a performance. An illusion of what their clients crave," he said, masking his discomfort with indifference. Still, he couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that he was missing something.

Her blue eye flashed with an unsettling brightness, as though he'd just delivered the exact words she'd been waiting to hear.

"Performance… So, they must be quite skilled in the art ofacting, then," she mused, voice turning colder as she let the words sink. "To make men dance. To make them do whatever they want, whenever they want."

Sebastian sighed, a sound caught between exasperation and disbelief. Was she truly about to claim that her climax—the one he had drawn from her, the one he knew was her very first—had been feigned?

The absurdity of it nearly made him rich. The lie was so preposterous, so blatantly obvious, he almost wanted to laugh. Instead, the laughter stuck in his throat, swallowed by the tight, dry feeling that settled in his chest.

"It wasn't an act," he said, his voice cool, dripping with disdain. "You're not that talented an actress, Young Mistress."

The smudge on her cheek shifted as her lips stretched wider, her teeth flashing white and sharp under the light.

She no longer spared him a glance as she slid the letter into the envelope. The wax stick in her hand dripped slowly, molten red pooling on the paper beneath. The soft press of the seal followed a muted squish that echoed loud in the silence.

He watched the wax, and all he could think of wasred. So muchred.

"Even if that were true," he began through clenched teeth, "why would you play such a game? To make medance?" The last word came out as a derisive scoff.

"Well," she said, her voice as soft as the brush of a rose petal, "you are dancing, aren't you?"

Her tongue darted out again, flicking across the chocolate stain. Sponge cake with ganache, double frosting. This time she succeeded in licking it away.

"Now, tell me, for how many days would you require this holiday of yours?" she asked, her tone almost bored.

It took him a moment to reply. A moment to even hear the question. He couldn't focus—couldn't grasp the meaning of her words. Not while that searing, vicious anger thrashed at him like an animal in a cage.

"I don't need a holiday, my Lady," he forced the words out. Polite. Cold.

"Good," she replied, uncaring. "Because we're leaving for Ludlow Castle. Tomorrow." She made a gesture towards the sealed letter. "Now, get out of my sight."

Sebastian spun on his heel. The teacart rattled as he shoved it forward, the wheels screeching against the polished floor like a howl.

The door slammed shut behind him. The sound of it reverberated like a punch to the chest.

---

Cielle opened her eyes to find herself in bed. Her bed. The linens felt soft under her fingertips, impossibly soft, like downy clouds woven into thread. The room was bathed in twilight, the kind that made everything blur, unreal and uncertain.

For a moment, she believed herself alone. Perhaps trapped in some fevered slumber.

But then she heard it. A deep, wet rasp, like breath dragged through cracked lungs.

There was something at the foot of her bed.

It stood hunched, its head scraping the very beams of the ceiling above. Tendrils of dark mist radiated from its form, slithered in the air like sentient smoke, as if the very night itself had given birth to this abomination.

She dared not scream. She dared not move.

There was no shape to it, not in the way a man is shaped or a beast.

It was an ever-shifting mass, a tangle of limbs that weren't limbs, faces that weren't faces, mouths that twisted open only to vanish. Its surface gleamed as though slick with viscera, like something freshly flayed.

"Why?" she whispered, though she didn't know why she spoke or if the thing could even hear.

It didn't answer.

Instead, it moved closer.

There was a flash of fuchsine light, sharp and electric. She tried to follow it, but it vanished and reappeared elsewhere. An eye, perhaps, or something that only pretended to be.

The bed creaked as it came closer. She felt the shift of her body being drawn towards it, the gravity of its presence pulling her in. Her hands clenched the sheets, her body trembling—not in terror, but in something far more shameful.

Still, she didn't move.

She should have been terrified, but she wasn't. Its immensity, its untellable shape, was grotesque, but it wasn't malevolent. Somehow, she knew that. Its darkness was not cruel.

It loomed over her now, a vast shadow blotting out the room. She could feel the bed sinking beneath them, her body sinking beneath it.

A tendril slid from the mist and ghosted over her cheek. She could feel its breath—or what passed for it—a hot, dry wind that smelled of iron and something decayed, ancient and wrong. Of thousands of lives that had been devoured and forgotten, screaming at her from within its bowels.

That she had to run.

But its touch was warm. So warm. And she was so heartsore and lonely. She closed her eyes and leaned into it, the comfort so overwhelming it hurt.

She felt herself being wrapped in something, its tendrils, its limbs, whatever it was.

Her skin tingled at the contact, warmth spreading in a wave that made her shiver as it enclosed her waist, her legs, her arms, holding her as though she were something precious.

It was unsightly, incomprehensible.

And it wanted her.

A tendril hovered over her abdomen, the heat of it burned into her skin, leaving her body caught between terror and the need for it tofillher. Hunger gnawed at her centre and she had to press her thighs together to contain the flood of sensation rising within her. It wasn't relief she wanted—it was obliteration.

It was everywhere all at once and it wasn't enough.

A part of her loathed it. A part of her fought against it. But in the deepest crevices of her heart, shecravedit.

The creature's mass tightened around her, ground between her legs, and her back arched against her will, her body a traitor to her mind. The creature's warmth spread over her, into her, consuming her. She wanted to scream, but the sound caught in her throat, swallowed by the heat, by the pressure, by the sickening, devastating pleasure that crashed over her.

Then came the shift.

The dark warmth cooled and the comforting weight gave way to something else. She opened her eyes to find the tendrils retreating, dissolving into mist.

And the creature…

It was changing.

The darkness thinned, folding inwards. She watched, frozen, as it began to take shape. A human shape.

The heat in her chest curdled into dread and she couldn't look away as the creature shrunk. Its amorphous mass was retracting, condensing into a shape. Arms. Shoulders. A neck. A face.

A man.

It was a man now.

And she felt her desire twist into horror.

His skin was pale, almost translucent, but something moved underneath it, pulsing and writhing as though the creature still lived inside him. Blood trickled from his dark hair, staining his brow, dripping on her face.

But his eyes—those burning pits of fuchsine—remained the same.

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to recoil, but her body wouldn't move.

"What are you?" she whispered.

He smiled.

It wasn't a smile meant for a human face. His lips stretched too far, and his teeth glinted like shards of glass.

"You didn't fear me before," he said, his voice deep and resonant, echoing with something that wasn't entirely sound. "Why do you fear me now?"

"I didn't know," she managed, though she barely recognised her own voice.

He tilted his head, the motion sharp and birdlike before he leaned closer. The scent of blood and the acrid tang of something burned filled her lungs, making her gag. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face with an almost obscene tenderness.

"Now you know."

---

Cielle opened her eyes to find herself in bed. Her bed. It was dark. The heavy curtains swallowed every trace of moonlight.

It should feel safe.

It didn't.

Her chest felt tight, like she'd swallowed a fistful of stones and they had lodged themselves deep in her lungs. She tried to breathe, but her breaths stuttered out her, too quick and too sharp, and they weren't enough.

Her hands flew to her neck, clawing at her skin, trying to pull herself free of the invisible weight pressing her down. The air felt heavy with the phantom stench of rot and iron. It scraped her throat raw.

It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

But the feeling was. As real as the ache in her chest and the tremor in her hands.

The bed creaked as she sat up. Her stomach churned, nausea rising like bile in her throat, and she doubled over, gripping her knees as if she could stop herself from falling apart.

Her mind spun with fragments of the dream. Most of it had already faded, but certain details remained vivid. The writhing mass of limbs, and the fuchsine glow of eyes that never closed. The smile. The carnivorous smile that was stretched too wide, wider than what should be physically possible. Like a wound splitting flesh.

But worst of all was the feeling.

The shattering, vile pleasure that had flared through her middle, silenced her screams, drowned her in its tide. Even now, she couldn't smother the echo of that sensation. It sickened her. It hollowed her out.

She flinched as the shame took hold. Again, the shame. The past days had been a blur. White ceilings, white bedsheets, the pallor of her nightdress. The red of Mey-Rin's hair, the red of Cielle's skin as she scrubbed herself clean, the red ofhiseyes, always watching, always too close—

And beneath it all, the shame.

Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms as she tried to ground herself.

But it wasn't enough to chase off the feeling of being watched, as though the creature—or the man—was still there, in the corner of her room, just out of sight. She forced herself to look around the darkened cave of her bedchamber.

Nothing.

Just her room.

She collapsed back onto the bed.

Cielle's nails dug harder into her palms, and the sting split through the fog clouding her thoughts. Her breathing slowed, though every inhale still felt like dragging shattered glass through her chest.

Her hands slipped under her pillow without thought. She blinked as her fingers brushed against something cold and smooth.

Her gun.

She curled her hand around its pearl handle before she pulled it free from underneath the pillow.

British Bull Dog revolver. Customised just for her, with gold inlays and the Phantomhive family crest engraved along the frame.

For three years, she'd never gone to bed without it, despite the fact there wasn't any real need for it. With her servants and the demon butler guarding the manor, the house was more secure than the Tower of London itself. She had never once needed to fire it during the night.

It was much like a child's need for a stuffed animal, wasn't it? The way a young one might clutch their tattered toy for comfort, certain that the weight and softness could stave off the dark creatures of the night. In the same vein, Cielle had come to rely on the cold, hard certainty of the revolver.

She lifted it above her head, the shape of it was blurred in the darkness, but familiar under her fingers. It was tiny, just the right size to slip into her coat pocket or nestle under the pillow. Perfect for self-defence. But it felt heavy in her hands, heavier than it looked. It felt good, it's weight.

Her fingers slid over the mechanism as she flicked open the loading gate on its side. The first chamber rotated into view and the scent of oil filled the air. She reached for the ejector rod under the barrel. As she pressed the rod into the chamber, the brass cartridge popped loose and tumbled into her waiting palm.

Like that, she unloaded the lead bullets one by one.

But not all of them.

With the last cartridge ejected, she let the cylinder spin loosely before snapping the gate shut.

Lying on the bed, she stared at the canopy. Her seeing eye was fixed, but tonight it felt as blind as the one that bore the contract's mark.

She stared at the canopy.

Breathing. Breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Over and over.

Her hand moved on its own, and the cold barrel of the gun pressed against her temple.

Most chambers were empty, after all. Five in total, with only one loaded. Like in Lermontov'sThe Fatalist, where Vulič spun the pistol, not out of some death wish, but just to win a bet. A game of chance, tempting the fate for a laugh.

She had seen others play the game before.

Once, in the back room of Lau's opium den, a pair of drunken men had staggered into a rough-hewn circle of onlookers and she'd seen one of them—the bigger one, with hands too steady for his stupor—grasp a revolver. She'd watched as he loaded a single round, spun the cylinder, and slammed it shut.

Cielle had stood in the shadows, silent as a wraith, as the man pressed the muzzle to his temple and grinned. The crowd cheered as he pulled the trigger. Nothing. His partner grabbed the gun next, shaking with either fear or withdrawal effects of opium. The silence after the click was deafening, more chilling than the shot they all waited for.

Another time, in the cellar of a particularly unsavoury crime lord's lair, she had watched two rivals resolve their dispute with the same game. The scent of whiskey, cigars and sweat mingled with the tang of fear in the air. The loser hadn't lived to hear the jeers of those who bet against him.

She had placed her own wager, of course.

It had always fascinated her, this ritual of men flirting with death. She never knew whether it was bravery, pride, or sheer stupidity that compelled them. Perhaps it was all three.

Except she—

The trigger clicked.

Cielle gasped in the dark.

Nothing.

The gun didn't fire.

She was still here. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a prisoner rattling the bars of a cage. Loud, furious, alive. As expected, of course.

Cielle waited, lungs burning, until she remembered how to breathe. In. Out. Over and over, until the air didn't scrape her throat raw. Until the sting in her eyes faded. It was was good.

She understood the appeal of this accursed game now.

Except…

This wasn't merely a game of chance for her. She wasn't tempting fate for the sake of a cheap laugh. No, it was the sound—thesnapof the hammer falling. And the world narrowed to a pinpoint.

The way it denotated that primal instinct buried deep in the marrow of every living thing. The perfect instant of uncertainty when instinct took over, screaming that shewantedto live, whether her mind agreed or not. A proof that she hadn't been hollowed out completely.

And when it clicked empty, it wasn't relief that washed over her. It was control. Or at least an illusion of it. That was what she needed.

And perhaps that sound could cut through the chaos inside her. Perhaps it could carve out the . She needed it again.

Her fingers, shaking, found the trigger once more.

But she didn't pull this time.

There was a movement. The shadow, at the foot of her bed.

"And what, may I ask, do you think you are doing, my Lady?"

Her heart thumped a cold, hard beat as she sprang upright, arm outstretched.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the darkness like the scream of tearing metal.

Pain exploded in her skull. Her ears howled with it, the shrill keening that smothered all other sounds. The recoil jolted up her arm, rattling her bones, and she let out a broken groan, half anguish, half fury. At herself.

She dropped the weapon, squeezing her eyes shut against the biting pain as it carved through her senses. Even though her hand held the gun as far from her head as possible, her ears burned as though the sound had torn through her instead of the air.

Guns were always too loud. Even in the open air. Even with cotton shoved deep into her ear canals, and woollen earmuffs jammed tightly over her head.

She hated shooting.

Hated the throb in her head, how the heat flared behind her eyes as if they were about to combust.

Cielle tried to focus, to listen for something, anything beyond the high-pitched drone, but it was all gone. For a moment, her hearing was gone. It was as if the world had been sucked into a void.

She clenched her teeth, pressing her hand to her temple as if she could force the pain out. How long had it been? A few seconds? Minutes? Time itself had splintered.

When the first sounds began to bleed through she could barely make sense of it, as though carried from some far-off world.

But she thought that somewhere, muffled by the ringing in her ears, came the rhythm of footsteps. Heavy. Uneven. Jittery. Behind the door. They paused every few strides as though their owner couldn't decide whether to advance or retreat.

"Young Mistress?" a voice called out from the hallway, shaky with . "Is… is everything all right?"

"Yes," she replied, though the word came jagged and thin, scraping against her raw throat. She winced as the sound of her own voice reverberated painfully through her head, setting her teeth on edge.

There was a pause, followed by a shuffle of feet. Then, slowly, the footsteps receded—reluctant at first, dragging slightly before picking up speed.

Silence returned, save for the ringing in her ears.

Slowly, she pried her eyes open.

The room spun, and amidst the haze, a silhouette emerged. Tall. Motionless and monolithic. Cold and still, like an ice-carved effigy, but alive with a terrible vitality that thrummed in the air.

Sebastian stood at the foot of her bed.

In one gloved hand, he held something small and gleaming. A bullet.

His garnet eyes met hers for a fraction of a moment. Then, he let the bullet slip from his fingers. The metal struck the wooden floor.

"Explain yourself, Young Mistress," he began, and under the frost of his gaze, she saw very real anger churning. "Am I to take this as a lapse in judgement… or as a breach of the contract you swore upon your soul?"

The words stung her like a lash. But she didn't flinch. She refused to. The room felt smaller. His presence loomed larger.

"What about your vengeance?" His voice turned harsher. "The vow you gave me?"

She winced again, her hands instinctively rising to her ears. His voice was loud. Too loud. Like church bells tolling for the dead.

"It is no breach," she hissed, far steadier than she felt. "I knew you'd catch the bullet, Sebastian. Isn't that what you'resupposedto do? Protect me, no matter what?"

The demon's eyes narrowed, twin rubies lit by an unholy fire.

"And what if I hadn't, my Lady?" His voice was a chilling whisper. He took a step closer. The shadows shifted with him, as though they,too, were drawn to him. "What then?"

She tightened the grip on the gun in her hands. She hadn't realised she'd picked it up again. The weight of it grounded her, but only just.

"Then you wouldn't get the soul you've been cultivating so carefully," she replied, forcing a bitter smile to her lips. "Not in the state you want. Ripe. Complete with the fulfilment of my wish."

For a moment, he was silent, studying her with the same calculating intensity a hawk might give a wounded bird. The crimson of his gaze pulsed, deepened, and then bloomed with fuschine, unfurling like the petals of some strange flower.

The spectrum of his gaze.

She had seen it before.

Maroon was the mask of humanity, the pretence he wore to move unnoticed among mortals. It was warm and muted, almost comforting if one didn't look too closely. Crimson came when the mask cracked, when his passions burned too fiercely to be hidden—rage, hunger, lust.

But fuschine...

Fuschine was something else entirely.

The more his humanity stripped away, the more his eyes glowed with that alien hue. It wasn't a colour of this árantos. Unfading. Eternal. The longer she stared, the more she felt as if she were standing at the edge of a ravine, about to plummet inside.

It didn't frighten her, though. No.

"Why did you do it then?" he asked at last.

"I wished to speak to you," she answered calmly.

Sebastian tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "A peculiar way of calling for my attention," he remarked, though there was no humour in his tone. "Now that you have it, what is it you wish to say?"

The rattle of brass resounded as Cielle set the revolver next to the unfired cartridges on the bedside table. She wiped the oil from her hands with a napkin, her eyes never leaving him.

"I know you did something to me," she said. "That night."

His gaze flicked to her bedside. Without a word, he moved closer, reaching for the gun. She tensed but didn't stop him.

"You shall have to be more specific," he replied, flatly. One by one, he began loading the revolver. "If you mean to accuse me, I should very much like to know the crime. After all…" He snapped the cylinder shut and spun it with a flick of his wrist. "I've done many things to you, my Lady.

He stepped closer, the revolver dangling from his fingertips as though it weighed nothing. His gaze caught hers, unblinking, as though he were looking for something behind her glare.

"Can you be trusted with this?" he inquired and tilted the weapon towards her with a touch of mockery.

She scoffed and wrenched the gun from his grasp, shoving it back under her pillow.

"Don't play obtuse," she told him. "You know full well what I mean. Or do you plan to stand there and lie to my face?"

He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.

"I have never lied to you, my Lady. Nor do I intend to begin now. But if you're so certain of my guilt, perhaps you might enlighten me. What, exactly, have I done?"

Her jaw clenched, and the words came with a bite that matched the heat rising in her chest.

"You've been tampering with me," she snapped. "Since we first started this arrangement. You've been twisting something in my head. My thoughts. My… will." She let out a bitter, mirthless laugh, hollow and cracked. "It was your power, wasn't it?"

He stepped back, his hands clasped behind him as if in retreat. It wasn't submission, but neither was it defiance.

"I do not deny it," he said carefully as if choosing each word like a chess move. "But it helped, didn't it? You've come so far already. Before, you couldn't even bear the thought of someone brushing your sleeve, let alone…" He trailed off, studying her reaction. "That was your goal, was it not?"

"Spare me your justifications," she cut in, her tone icy. "You didn't do this for me. You did it for your own convenience. To make me pliable. To make it easier for you to…"

"Perhaps," he admitted, with a coolness that made her blood simmer. "But do you truly believe you would have reached this point otherwise? Without some form of intervention?"

Her glare sharpened. "And my consent?" she demanded, her voice curling into a sneer. "What about that? Or was that just a casualty of your so-calledintervention?"

"I asked you," he said. "You said yes."

"Don't insult me," she snapped. "I wasn't myself. I never would've allowed you to… if I weren't…"

"If there was no part of you that wanted it, I could not have succeeded, my Lady. I am a demon, not a god. I amplify, I tempt, but I cannot create what is not already there."

Her hands clenched in the fabric of her covers, white-knuckled. She felt the heat rise in her chest, boiling over, her breaths too shallow to contain it.

"So that's your bloody excuse?" Her voice broke out in a sharp bark and pain flared in her ears. "That I wanted it?"

"You were ready for it," he replied, still infuriatingly calm. "The fear that held you back—thatis what I dulled. Not your will."

"You manipulated me into wanting it," she hissed, and her breath hitched with a quiver. "So don't—" She paused to steady herself. "Don't you dare turn this around on me. You crossed a line."

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something within him. A glimpse of doubt. Or regret? But it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Perhaps I did. Or perhaps you're afraid to acknowledge that some part of you welcomed it. Feared the alternative more than you despise me now."

"It doesn't matter," she snarled, her voice low but shaking with suppressed fury. "I don't give a damn about your reasons, or what part of me you think wanted it! It wouldn't have mattered if you'd kept your power out of it. You crossed a line, that's what matters and—"

Her voice cracked on the final word, and her body betrayed her as tremors coursed like ice through her limbs. Her left eye dimmed, leaving her in a haze of blurred sight once again.

She hadn't been ready for it. Shewasn'tready for it. Not that night, not in the days that followed, not even now.

It wasn't that she hadn't thought of it before. How could she not, with him so close, so persistent, and so inhumanly perfect? But imagining it had been one thing, just a half-formed idea she could discard at will—and she often had before they could even take root.

She had never intended to actually do anything likethatwith the demon.

She just wanted to stop panicking every time someone touched her, to let Edward embrace her without wanting to crawl out of her body. And perhaps, somewhere in the process, tighten the leash on her demon—secure his loyalty a little more.

But even if she had, this… This had been too much, too soon, and entirely out of her control.

And now, she wasn't even sure she could breathe through it. Her breath wouldn't—

Cielle gasped. It wouldn't , no, no.

The bed. The bed creaked beneath her. She laid down.

Her stomach turned. She felt it rising, sharp, burning. No. No, not this. Not again. The world waswrong, wrong, wrong. Her hands, they couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop. She couldn't stop.

She couldn't—couldn't pull the weight off. The pressure. The ache, the thudding pulse in her chest, the frantic beat she couldn't slow, couldn't stop.

She wanted to scream. To breathe. To do anything but stay like this—

Something was there.

Footsteps. Soft, like the whisper of a shadow.

"Mistress."

His voice. Low. Steady. Cutting through the panic like a knife. "Mistress."

Her mind seized on it. On him.

He was here. He was—

Warmth. His hands were there, wrapping around her shoulders, firm and grounding. Rubbing her arms, soothing and steady. She grasped the front of his dress shirt, the fabric pressed tight in her fists. And for a moment, she stopped shaking. Just for a moment. Just for a breath.

"Breathe."

The command was spoken softly, his lips brushing against her forehead. No anger. No mockery. Just calm, steady control.

"Breathe, my Lady."

Her heart stuttered, still racing, still erratic—but slowing. The spiral dulled. The panic receded like a tide. Piece by piece, she came back to herself. Not entirely, not fully. But enough. Enough to remember what air felt like in her lungs.

"There now," he murmured, his fingers still resting on her arms, as though tethering her to the here and now. "Good."

She exhaled a shaky, broken sound that was almost a sob. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight lifted. Just a little.

The very hands that had done this to her were now the ones holding her together. How degenerate, how utterlybrokenhad she become, to find solace here?

"I shall run you a bath, yes?" said Sebastian.

Of course, he knew how she felt. He often did. And he always had his remedies. Milk with honey for nightmares. White roses when she was upset with him. Lavender baths when she felt unclean.

The perfect butler. Always a step ahead.

She stayed where she was, perched on the edge of the bed, watching the pale light of dawn filter through the heavy curtains. From the bathroom, she could hear the rhythm of water filling the tub, the occasional clink of porcelain against porcelain.

But Sebastian had been wrong, despite all his precision. Their agreement hadn't helped her. Not really. She'd grown used to being touched without flinching, yes—but only byhim. Just him.

It hadn't translated to anyone else. Edward's hand on her shoulder still sent a jolt through her like she'd been shocked. Crowded rooms still made her stomach twist. Even the accidental brush of a stranger's coat on the street left her clenching her fists, biting down the bile that rose in her throat.

Sebastian was different. His hands did not make her skin crawl. His voice did not send her into a downward spiral. He could hold her, steady her, anchor her when the noise in her head grew too loud to bear. She wasn't sure if it was the contract that tied them together or the fact that he always seemed to know exactly how to handle her. Either way, he was the exception.

He'd trained her to tolerate him, but that was all. His touch didn't undo the scars others had left. If anything, it deepened the fissures between her and everyone else.

Sebastian returned. Her bath was ready.

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. Slowly, she stood and moved towards the bathroom. Her legs felt unsteady.

At the door, she stopped. Her hand gripped the frame to ground herself, and she turned to glance back at him. And there, in the dim light of the room, he looked down at her with those árantos.

Her throat tightened. The words were thick, caught somewhere between her chest and her mouth. But she forced them out anyway.

"Our agreement…" she began. Her heart thundered, the ringing in her ears louder now, pressing against her skull. "It's over."

Those eyes. They widened. Then, they narrowed, as if he'd been struck in some unseen place. For a long moment, he stood frozen, as though he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

His lips parted. He moved to speak. But no sound came.

Cielle turned, forcing her limbs to obey. The door slammed shut behind her.

The sound the last tremor before a storm breaks.

---

A/N Song: "Sin" by Nine Inch Nails