I didn't rush. Why would I? I'd just bound myself to Aerion with Old Law. Still not sure whether that was clever, stupid, or a beautiful combination of both. Either way, if I was going to chain myself for a decade, I was damn well going to stroll into this temple like I owned the place. Which, technically, I did. I'd paid for the merchandise. The high priest met me at the entrance wearing the kind of tight, sweaty smile mortals reserve for approaching divinity. He bowed as if the movement might keep him alive. Overcompensating. Nervous. Hiding something. Ah. A typical SHITS priest.
I didn't bother with a greeting. Just nodded for him to lead the way. My hands slid into my pockets, steps slow and lazy as I took in the surroundings. Not a temple, a polished box dressed up as holiness. Classic SHITS architecture. Flashy, empty, and desperate to be taken seriously. We reached the center chamber. Her. Chained to a marble pillar like a painting nailed to a wall. White ceremonial robes. Tall. Still. Not trembling. Not crying. Not seducing. Not pleading. Just… watching.
I stopped. Tilted my head. She was beautiful, yes, hair like fire, skin brushed with candlelight, a body mortals would write poems and bad decisions about. But that wasn't what made me pause. Her eyes. She wasn't afraid. Not hopeful. Not curious. Just aware.
The high priest puffed up, overflowing with the desire to narrate. "My lord, this is Anastasia. She is the one we have cho—"
I flicked a hand. "I'm not here for your dramatics. She's here. I'm here. Let's not drag this out."
He wilted and retreated, still bowing. Good riddance. I stepped closer, letting my boots tap across the stone, studying her. She didn't flinch. Didn't track me. Didn't try to charm or cower or perform. She regarded me the same way I regarded her. Sharp. Measuring. Completely unmoved. I smiled. "So. You are it? The grand prize? The jewel of the SHITS? I guess I excepted more trained enthusiasm."
A slow blink. "Enthusiasm? Why would I be enthusiastic? I've done this before. A thousand times. You may think you're different, but you're not."
Oh, that was interesting. Sharp tongue. No heat behind it. No seduction. No fear. Just truth. I circled her slowly like a cat mildly curious about something that refused to play. "Fascinating. Mortals usually beg. Flatter. Occasionally try seduction and fail, which is always embarrassing for both of us. But you…" I studied her stillness. "You're not trying to survive me. You've already decided you will."
Her gaze didn't follow me. "I'm not here for your entertainment, I belong to you. That's the arrangement. But don't expect me to pretend I enjoy it." Not resigned. Not hopeless. Just finished. That was worse. Much worse.
"You've done this before," I murmured, stepping back into her line of sight. "How many times?"
She didn't answer. But I didn't need her to. Her body spoke. The deliberate stillness. The faint shimmer under her skin, magic soaked into bone. "You've made a life out of this, giving people what they think they want. Pretending to be what they need."
Something flickered across her lips, almost a smile. "I don't pretend, I give them what they're paying for. I know the difference." She didn't shape her voice to please. It was real. Gods forget what real sounds like. I didn't realize how starved I was for it.
"You're not broken," I said before I could stop myself. It slipped out, an accident. I never slip. "That's what bothers me. You should be shattered. A puppet. A shell. But you're not. You're intact."
She raised a brow. "Disappointed?"
I grinned. "Not yet. You might surprise me."
With a flick of my fingers, the chains fell. Metal clattered across marble like dying snakes. She stepped back from the pillar, rubbing her wrist, then lifted her gaze to mine. "Thank you." The word was simple and shockingly sincere.
"You're thanking me for unchaining you? Not for sparing your life? Not for claiming you? Nothing dramatic?"
She shrugged lightly. "I didn't expect kindness. Even small ones deserve notice." Her calm rattled me more than hysteria ever could.
I cleared my throat. "What do they call you?"
"Anastasia."
"Anastasia, alright then." I extended my hand with a flourish. "Come. My realm awaits." She took it without hesitation. Just obedience carved from survival.
Reality bent, folded, and split open and we stepped into my realm. Skies bled violets and molten gold. Trees grew upside down. The ground breathed like a living dream. Anastasia looked around once…and gave the smallest breath of acknowledgment. "It's beautiful, but it doesn't change anything."
Without warning her posture shifted. A tiny tilt of the head. A softening of the shoulders. A change so subtle I almost missed it. Her training taking over. She stepped close. Too close. Her hands slid up my chest with practiced ease, fingers tracing my coat like she'd done it a thousand times. Her chin lifted. Her breath mingled with mine. Then she kissed me. Perfectly. Technically flawless. Warm lips. Steady rhythm. Expert pressure, expert angle. A kiss engineered to satisfy any god with a pulse.
Gods help me, my body responded. A pulse of want shot down my spine, fast, sharp, instinctive. For half a heartbeat, I almost leaned in. Almost. Something cold slid through the feeling. This wasn't her. It wasn't desire. It wasn't even seduction. It was performance. The realization soured the kiss instantly. I caught her wrists gently. Not to hurt but to stop. "Anastasia."
She stilled. Her eyes lifted to mine, calm as water.
"Did I misread the situation?" she asked. Her voice perfectly neutral.
I exhaled. "No. You didn't misread anything. But that doesn't mean I want… this."
"This?" she echoed.
"Habit, rehearsal. Something you've done because it was expected."
Her face didn't change. "Most men want what they've paid for."
"Well," I said with a crooked grin I didn't entirely feel, "I'm not most men."
She stepped back. Not flustered. Not offended. Just… resetting. As if the kiss had been nothing more than a duty performed. That was worse than anything she could have done.
"Come," I said, forcing my usual swagger back into my voice. "Let me show you… the rest." Something unfamiliar flickered under my ribs. Interest. Concern.Something colder, sharper, far more dangerous: A need to see who she was without the script.