They had been quiet all day. Too quiet for a newly wedded couple.
In the car, Zara glanced sideways. Vincent sat with his back straight, his gaze fixed on the glittering city beyond the window. He looked nothing like the timid man who used to trail behind her with his head lowered.
'Did marriage…change him somehow?' she wondered.
Since he wasn't starting any conversation, she tried.
"Was the day too hard on you, Mr. Macoy?" Her voice was soft and polite.
He didn't answer. His silence stretched.
Zara, a little irritated, placed her hand on his thigh to draw his attention. That worked. His head turned, eyes sliding from her hand to her face.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice edged with irritation.
Zara blinked. "What do you mean? I asked you something."
A pause. His brow furrowed, then cleared as if he'd just remembered.
"Oh, right. That… Yes. Nice." His answer was vague and detached.
Zara frowned. "I asked you if the day was too hard for you."
This time he gave her a proper answer, though it wasn't much better.
"It was tolerable." He shrugged carelessly.
But then, to her utter shock, he caught the hand resting on his thigh and pulled it toward him. His lips curved into a smirk.
"I look forward to the night," he murmured, his tone suggestive.
Zara froze. Heat rushed to her ears. She jerked her hand away and slid to the far corner of her seat, her heart thundering. His smug smile lingered, as though he enjoyed her reaction.
'What's with him? Is he serious? Are we… doing it tonight?' Her body tensed at the thought. She had never considered marriage as anything more than a contract, a means to secure her inheritance. In her mind, her life would go on as before, just with a husband's name attached.
But now… this change in him, this boldness, made her forget everything except the single, terrifying implication.
'Does that mean I'll have to…?'
Her mind screamed, her face still hot with embarrassment. And beside her, Vincent, or the man she thought was Vincent, smiled in the dark.
When they reached the hotel, the couple headed straight to their suite. Vincent pushed the door open first, stepping inside with quiet precision, and Zara followed.
She halted mid-step, turning toward him, her robe clutched tight at her waist. "Is it all right if I… change first?" Her tone carried more nerves than she intended.
Vincent only nodded and moved as though to leave. But before he stepped out, Zara spoke again, her voice softer, edged with hesitation. "Do you… remember our terms?"
She meant the clause in their contract—the line that forbade intimacy between them. But Vincent's mind snapped instead to the gift he had forgotten, the one Kathy had so slyly pressed upon him. For a second, suspicion flickered in his eyes, remembering her touch and her smirk. Then he dismissed it. What could a mere human possibly do to me?
He nodded as if he understood, though his thoughts were elsewhere. "I'll give you some time," he said, and left the suite.
From his pocket, he pulled a folded slip of paper: 1602. Kathy's handwriting was scrawled across it. She had slipped it to him during the greetings at the wedding. His steps carried him to the door, and before his knuckles touched the wood, it swung open. Kathy stood there, lips curved, eyes too bright.
"Brother-in-law," she purred, ushering him in.
The room was hazy, perfumed air clinging too heavily to be natural. Vincent's gaze swept across it once, unimpressed. "The gift," he said, his tone clipped, almost cold. "Hand it over."
Kathy feigned a startled blink, trailing her fingers along her collarbone as though it might distract him. "It's hot in here, isn't it? Sit; have some water first …"
Vincent's stare was flat and unnerving. "Don't waste my time."
For the first time, Kathy faltered. Still, she turned her back, fumbling through a drawer. Her mother's words echoed in her mind: 'no man could resist this.' A slow, sinister smile touched her lips. But when she turned, Vincent was gone.
Back in the wedding suite, Vincent staggered through the door, locking it behind him. His body burned, fever searing under his skin. A groan tore from his throat as he stumbled, knocking a glass ornament from the dresser. It shattered on the floor.
"Vincent?" Zara's voice drifted from the bathroom. She turned off the shower and stepped out, hair dripping, robe clinging to her frame. Concern shadowed her face as she rushed to him.
She knelt beside him, pressing her palm to his forehead. "You're burning up—"
In a sudden movement, he caught her wrist. His eyes snapped to hers, pupils dark, hungry, and dangerous. Zara's breath caught. "Vincent," she whispered, her voice trembling.
His gaze dropped to her lips, heat flaring through every vein. For a moment, control seemed impossible. He hovered over her, shadow swallowing her delicate frame against the bed. Droplets of water slid from her hair onto his hand, searing his skin like fire.
Her cheeks flushed crimson. She pushed at his chest, whispering his name again, but her own body betrayed her, tense yet unwilling to move away.
Vincent's breath ghosted across her lips, every ounce of restraint fraying apart; he swallowed hard, his chest rising sharply as something unfamiliar coiled within him, restless and consuming. This body… it reacts to her… why can't I control it? The thought struck him with irritation, with something dangerously close to frustration, yet he forced himself still, gripping onto the last thread of restraint he had left.
With effort, he allowed her to help him sit up, but the moment his weight shifted, his body betrayed him. He fell back against the bed with a low groan, pain cutting through him. It was raw, disorienting, and unexpected.
"Why does it hurt…?" he muttered, unaware the words had slipped out.
Zara stilled at that. Her gaze sharpened, studying him more closely now, taking in the disheveled state of a man who was never anything but composed in front of her, her secretary.
"Are you alright, Mr. Macoy?"
"…"
"Mr. Macoy…?"
She stepped closer this time, slower and more cautious. Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose, his expression strained and distant, as if he were fighting something unseen.
Something wasn't right.
Zara knew Vincent. Knew his careful movements, his quiet distance, the way he would flinch at the slightest closeness when she turned toward him. He was always aware. Always controlled.
But now… he didn't react at all.
Her suspicion deepened.
She moved closer, her hand lifting almost instinctively toward his face, intending to touch his cheek...to bring him back, to force some response out of him.
Still nothing.
So she bent slightly, trying to catch his expression, unaware of how her robe shifted, how it revealed more than it concealed.
And that was enough.
The last thread of control snapped.
In the next moment, Vincent moved—suddenly and swiftly—closing the distance until he hovered above her. Zara froze beneath him, surprise flashing across her face before heat followed, betraying her all too easily.
Vincent stilled.
Their eyes met.
Something sharp and disorienting tore through him. His mind blurred, his heartbeat thundered, It was too loud, too human. This wasn't supposed to happen… this wasn't in the contract.
For a moment, he forgot. Forgot who he was. Forgot that he was Dorian inside Vincent's body.
All he could feel was her.
Zara didn't pull away. Her gaze held his—uncertain, searching, but not afraid. She had noticed it since morning, the subtle shift, the way his eyes no longer felt like his.
Just once… it should be fine… right? Her heart questioned her desires.
Her hands lifted slowly, almost hesitantly, and cupped his face.
That touch—soft, trusting—unraveled him completely.
Vincent's breath hitched. The restraint he had been clinging to dissolved into something far more dangerous, something he couldn't name, couldn't control. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips which were glossy and parted—before returning to her eyes, darker now, sharper, no longer entirely Vincent's.
"This… is on you," he murmured, his voice low, rough, threaded with something unfamiliar.
And then he kissed her.
Nor hesitant, nor careful.
It was Deliberately slow and Consuming.
As if he were discovering her… and losing himself in the same breath.