A week since the ruined cathedral, since his command to kneel, since my refusal. He'd brought me back to my apartment without a word, shadows spilling me onto my bed like I was nothing worth keeping. As the silence stretches, the cost of my defiance becomes clearer. No ember-red eyes in the dark, no whispers curling at the edges of my thoughts. Only silence.
I tell myself I should be relieved. That his absence is a blessing, proof I'm stronger than whatever bond ties me to him. But the truth is sharper, uglier. I miss him. Not his cruelty, not his claim—at least that's what I keep insisting to myself—but the way my blood hummed when he was near, the way the mark burned like it knew something I wouldn't admit. The taste of metallic regret lingers on my tongue, an unexpected reminder of all that silence holds. Now it's quiet, and the quiet feels worse.
Life, meanwhile, has gone on without him. Grace is stronger by the day, her cheeks filling with color, her laughter carrying down the hallway where once there was only coughing. My job, too, has shifted; the promotion came through, like he promised—or arranged—and tonight is my last shift in the grease-stained apron of a server. Tomorrow, I will wear the supervisor's badge.
I should feel proud. Triumphant, even. Instead, as I tie my apron and step onto the diner floor, I feel hollow. Like I'm waiting.
The dinner rush is already in full swing, with orders piling up, coffee steaming, and the hiss of the grill filling the air. The sound of the bell above the door interrupts the monotony, a clear ring contrasting with the chaotic noise, jolting my thoughts back to the diner. I move through it on autopilot, balancing trays, scribbling notes, refilling mugs with the fake smile I've perfected over the years. But my mind drifts where it shouldn't—to ember-red eyes, to a ruined cathedral, to the word I refused to give him. Each clang and clatter booms in my mind like the echoes in that silent, holy place.
If I had kneeled, would he still be here?
"Hey, sweetheart." A gravelly voice snaps me back. I plaster on my polite smile, pen poised. The man at the booth reeks of stale beer and cigarette smoke, his grin too wide, too familiar. I take his order quickly—burger, fries, extra onions—scribbling it down before I can lose myself again.
"Got it," I say, sliding the pad into my apron and turning away.
Then his hand smacks against me, low and sharp.
I stumble, heat flaring in my cheeks, but I don't stop. I've dealt with this before. Too many times. My skin crawls, but I force myself to keep walking, tray balanced in my hands, pretending it doesn't matter. Pretending I'm untouchable.
The mark thrums faintly beneath my blouse, a soft pulse I can't ignore, and in the pit of my stomach, a sharp stab of discomfort flares. It's like fire crawling under my skin, leaving me breathless, my thoughts scattering as if pushed by an unseen hand. Other patrons notice my brief wince, a flicker of concern knitting their brows, reminding me that any slip could cost more than just attention. For one terrible moment, I almost wish he was here—that Adrial had seen it.
Because unlike me, he wouldn't have let it slide.
I steady my tray, forcing the tight smile back onto my face as I weave through the crowded diner. The smell of grease and burnt coffee clings to everything, and for once, I'm grateful. It grounds me. Reminds me this is real, not some shadowed cathedral in another realm.
"Unbelievable," I mutter under my breath, forcing my shoulders straight as I slide into the kitchen.
"Hey, Ev," the cook calls, wiping his hands on a rag. "What happened?"
I set down my tray with a little more force than necessary. "Booth seven. Guy thought it'd be funny to smack my ass on the way back."
The cook's face hardens, his jaw ticking. He slams a pan down a little too loudly.
"Again? Jesus. You want me to go say something?"
I shake my head, forcing a shrug I don't feel. "No. It's not worth it. Just another creep with wandering hands. I'll deal."
"You shouldn't have to 'deal,'" he grumbles, glaring toward the dining room. "One of these days, Ev, I'm gonna march out there and make an example of one of them."
I laugh, but it's thin and tired. "Please don't. The last thing I need is explaining to Hargrove why the fry cook decked a customer. Just… let it go. I'm fine."
"You shouldn't have to be fine with it," he mutters again, but softer this time.
I grab table seven's food when it's ready and head back out onto the floor, plates balanced carefully on the tray. The customer leans back in his seat when I approach, smirking like nothing's wrong. I keep my eyes on the tray, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
"Burger, fries, onion rings," I say flatly, setting each plate down with practiced precision.
He doesn't even thank me, just stares at my chest like the food isn't what he ordered. My stomach twists, but I force my shoulders back and lift the tray to leave.
Except someone else is there now.
A man sits across from him. At first, he looks like any other customer, plain black shirt, dark jeans, hands tucked casually in his pockets. But the air refuses to obey around him, a soft bend where shadow seems to cling unnaturally, accentuating his presence though he remains still. His eyes, brown tonight, almost human, hold the same gravity that once pinned me against an altar.
Adrial.
Heat rushes through me so fast I almost stumble. He shouldn't be here. Not like this. Not in broad daylight, sitting in a diner booth like a man who belongs.
He doesn't look at me again. His eyes are locked on booth seven's customer, his voice low, steady, and lethal.
"Touch her again," Adrial says, his words smooth as silk but sharp as a knife, "and you'll lose the hand you used."
The customer blinks, laughs nervously, then falters. There's something in his stare—calm, cold, promising—that silences whatever bravado he thought he had.
I stand frozen, tray clutched against my chest, the mark burning hot enough to sear.
He straightens slowly but doesn't leave. He lingers, a calm weight in the chaos, like he belongs here somehow. His gaze flicks to me—steady, unyielding, a silent summons.
My chest tightens. I can't breathe in this room, not with him here.
I shoot a glance at the counter, catching my coworker's eye.
"I'm taking my break," I blurt, not waiting for an answer as I untie my apron and duck toward the back.