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She didn’t move. Her pupils remained wide, jaw set like it was the only thing keeping her steady.

Kaos watched the rise and fall of her chest, the flush still blooming high on her skin. “You have a meeting in thirty minutes,” he murmured, fighting the urge to touch her.

She blinked like the words hit her from somewhere far off. “Shit,” she remembered, turning and vanishing down the hall.

Kaos’s spirit seethed with need while Kohl’s body threw a jealous tantrum, furious that it hadn’t been him in her confession. Such a strange state of existence he was in. Two lives. Two bodies. With identical obsessions and identical rages to protect it. And the only reason he didn’t flick the human obstacle aside was because he couldn’t. Not if he was going to have her at all times. In both forms. With every appetite he possessed.

But wondering what she would feel and taste like on the tongue of this humanity he was imprisoned in held its own treasures he craved to have.

He listened as drawers opened, fabric flung, and curses spilled under her breath. Kaos still stood where she left him, silently celebrating. That dream would always live in her now. Her ache now had shape. And her possessive fury clutched it closely. He’d marked her spirit. Branded her breath. All that remained was getting her to give the same thing to Kohl.

****

Jaxi stepped outside and the wind met her first—cool across her skin, useless against the heat still rolling through her body. Everything clung to her like a mixed-medium-pour, right on her skin. The dream, the man now stalking behind her, their voices, mouths, the weight and glory of one body pressed into hers and the agony and longing for the other. For Kohl, for the way he watched her like he already knew what lived under her defenses—what she craved, what she’d give if someone ever reached far enough. The one shadowing her while her skin remembered someone else. That truth pulled like a blade through her chest.

He’d looked her in the eye and said it—harder than my Queen ever did. No shame. No hesitation. Like the dream had belonged to him, too. And maybe it did. Maybe it had always been him.

The air shifted around her—folding his presence in closer. She kept her eyes forward. Her body already tracked him—just behind her left shoulder, close enough to touch, close enough to want.

The path ahead curled clean between stone and clipped grass. The building at the end looked like it had no interest in greetings—Trojan HQ didn’t do welcome. It sat in the landscape like a steel verdict.

She walked toward it with her spine tight and her senses wide open. Boots on stone, wind in her coat. Phantom heat rising off the man behind her in waves that caught her breath every third step. Somehow his silence followed her closer. Pressing. Each footfall too measured and perfect.

The scent of him suddenly caught on the breeze—clean, dark, sharp as war ash. It wrapped around her lungs and refused to leave.

The building came closer and his image cut through the glass like a shadow built to walk through walls. Black on black. Calm on the outside. Eyes nearly black too—except for the red, glinting low and mean, like embers that refused to die even after the fire had.

He looked calm. Too calm. A still surface trying to convince the world it had no teeth underneath. But he was also her rear guard. A strange, comforting distraction she couldn't stop wanting to stare at.

She reached the main entrance and pulled the door open. Cool air washed over her as she stepped into the front corridor—polished floors, quiet lighting, and a silence built into the walls.

This part of the building didn’t make noise. It wore specs and listened with a quirked brow.

Ahead, a second door waited. Beyond it was the meeting room if she remembered correctly.

She paused at the threshold, hand on the glass handle.

Voices hummed on the other side—soft, focused. The kind of tone people used when making decisions about things they didn’t plan to reverse.

She felt him behind her. Close. Still.

She wanted to say something. Maybe something small. Just enough to anchor herself before walking into whatever this was.

She turned toward him. And forgot every word.

His gaze caught hers the second she faced him—dark, unreadable, fixed with that impossible stillness that felt less like restraint and more like something waiting to snap. His eyes, black near the edges, gleamed with those low red flecks—alive, watching, wanting something it would never voice.

She stood there, locked in the prison. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

His jaw ticked once. “The door,” he murmured, his soft tone surprising her.

Her stomach pulled tight. She turned back without a word and his hand closed around her other wrist, pulling.

She faced him, breath lodged in her chest. His eyes lowered and locked on her mouth. Her pulse scattered. His fingers closed over her jaw, soft, hot, like his focus on her lips.

She closed her eyes, unable to see him so close, so beautiful. His finger moved slowly, firmly at the edge of her lips, drawing her light gasp.

“A smear.”