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"They want me to kill again," I say, the words too calm, too hollow.

A slow nod. "They will demand more from you. And you will give it to them."

My stomach clenches.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I shouldn’t feel anything at all.

He’s right.

I will because I am past the point of turning back.

But that’s not what lingers in my mind.

It’s the way he says it.

It’s not an order or a command.

But as a fact.

"You think you know me so well," I say, my voice quieter now.

Zephiran exhales slowly, his jaw tightening before he stands, closing the space between us in a single breath.

He stops too close, his presence wrapping around me like a vice, the scent of him thick with spice and something unnameable.

"I do know you," he says, lifting a hand toward my face.

I flinch, but he doesn’t touch me.

His fingers hover, just barely, close enough to make me feel the heat of him, close enough to make me hate that I want him to close the distance.

"You belong to me," he murmurs, voice low, lethal, laced with something unholy.

The air between us snaps too tight, too fast.

The weight of it presses against my core, drags heat through my veins, curls something unwanted and unbearable beneath my skin.

I lift my chin, a silent challenge.

"And yet," I breathe, "you still haven’t figured out what to do with me."

Something in his expression shifts.

Like I’ve struck a nerve.

Like he knows it’s the fucking truth.

No matter how much he threatens me, no matter how many chains he tries to wrap around my body, my throat, my fucking soul?—

He still doesn’t know how to break me.

And that kills him.

His gaze drops to my mouth, his fingers twitching in the empty gap between us, his breath coming in just slightly too uneven.

He wants to take. To own. To ruin.

But he won’t.