Corvian has been giving me the silent treatment. No words, no glances, not even that sharp, knowing breath that usually cuts through a room before he speaks. Nothing.
After he walked in last night, he didn't say a thing. He just stood in the doorway, framed by the corridor light, eyes fixed on us. Clay moved first—straightened his shirt, murmured something about needing to make a call—and slipped out with his usual composure. Corvian lingered a heartbeat longer, expressionless, before turning and leaving as if the entire scene had been beneath his acknowledgment.
The door clicked; the sound has been clawing at my head since.
Now the morning has come, uninvited and indifferent. The room feels smaller under daylight, the air thick with the scent of last night's cologne and the ghost of warm water from the bath. The bedsheets are tangled, the curtains half open, spilling a weak, tired light across the floor. I've been trying to focus on packing, but every movement feels distracted, restless.
He hasn't spoken since. Not a word.
I shoved shirts into the duffel, the sound of zippers breaking the silence that's been stretching thin around me. "What was that timing?" I mutter to myself. "And why are you mad about it?"
There's no answer, of course. Not from him, not from the air. Just that emptiness, the kind that feels deliberate.
Clay left his card on the nightstand. Heavy paper, embossed letters—Clay Renshaw, Director of Events. Beneath it, in small handwriting: Call me later. I run my thumb along the edge, unsure whether to pocket it or leave it for the next poor bastard who checks into this room and thinks opportunity smells like perfume and wine.
Everything feels off. The silence, the timing, the whole strange current between the three of us. I keep thinking about Corvian's face when he saw us—unmoved, yet something flickered there, something colder than anger, sharper than jealousy. Whatever it was, it's mine to deal with now.
The room phone rang, sudden and shrill, cutting straight through my thoughts. I flinched before grabbing the receiver.
"Hugo," came Eddie's voice, impatient, rough as always. "We're in the lobby. Hurry the fuck up before I beat that friend of yours senseless."
I sighed, pressing a hand to my forehead. "Eddie, don't do stupid shit. I'm coming down right now."
"Then move it."
The line went dead.
I zipped the duffel, the teeth catching for a second before sliding shut. The sound was too loud in the quiet. I took one last look at the room—the bed unmade, Clay's card still gleaming faintly in the corner light, a towel draped over the chair like someone had left mid-thought. I grabbed what was left of me in this place—wallet, lighter, the jacket hanging by the door—and walked out.
The corridor smelled of fresh linen and departure.
The elevator doors opened with a low sigh, releasing me into the lobby's washed light. The scent of coffee lingered from the breakfast service, sharp against the clean polish of marble. I spotted them before they saw me—Eddie leaning against a column, tapping his foot with the energy of someone incapable of waiting, and Corrin beside him, motionless as if carved into the moment.
When Eddie noticed me, he straightened, smirking. "See? I told you it'd work," he said to Corrin, like they'd struck some unspoken bet.
Corrin didn't look at him. His eyes met mine instead, dark and unreadable. "Let's move," he said. "The taxi's outside."
I started toward them, duffel slung over my shoulder, but before I could speak, a voice cut through the room.
"Hugo."
I turned. Clay was crossing the lobby, his stride measured but unmistakably intent. The morning light through the glass doors touched his shirt, making the white fabric look almost golden. "You were leaving without saying goodbye?" he asked, smiling like he already knew the answer.
"I got your card," I said. "I'll call you."
"Good," he replied, stopping a few steps away. "I'll be waiting."
Before I could add anything, a hand clamped around my arm. Corrin's grip—cool, firm, absolute. He pulled me toward the doors with a strength that wasn't anger but authority.
"Hey, Corrin, slow down."
He didn't. He pushed open the hotel doors, the outside air rushing against my face, and steered me straight to the waiting taxi. He opened the back door, pressed me into the seat, and shut it behind me with a finality that left no room for argument. Then he rounded the hood and slid into the passenger's seat without a glance back.
Behind him, Eddie muttered, half-laughing, "Damn, that temper," before pulling open the other door and dropping beside me.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snapped, leaning forward toward Corrin.
He ignored me, his profile turned to the window. "Take us to Vanity Street, south Ebonreach," he told the driver.
The man nodded and shifted into motion, the taxi gliding away from the curb.
Eddie leaned closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "Did you and your boyfriend have a fight or something?"
I pushed him back with my shoulder, glare sharp enough to silence the rest of his grin.
Outside, the city slid by in ripples of glass and shadow, the kind of morning that promised nothing good. Corrin didn't speak. I watched the back of his neck, the stillness in the way he sat, and wondered whether silence was his punishment—or mine.
The car moved through Ebonreach with its usual weary rhythm, the morning light sliding across the windshield like slow breath. None of us spoke. I sat in the back, eyes on the passing buildings, trying to read something from Corvian's silence—some small shift in posture, a flicker of attention. Nothing. His face was turned to the window, carved from restraint, the kind that said whatever he was thinking, it wasn't mine to know.
What could possibly be his problem? Jealousy? No, that didn't fit him. Devils didn't do jealousy. They dissected it. They studied the way it hollowed humans from the inside. But still—there was something in the way he had looked at Clay, like a musician hearing a wrong note and refusing to name it.
The thought looped and twisted until I could barely breathe around it. Why did it matter this much? Why he mattered this much.
Eddie broke the silence, dragging me back up. "I'll text Poppy to meet us," he said, already reaching for his phone.
"Yeah," I murmured, not listening. My mind had already sunk back under.
If he's angry, what does that mean for me? He's not like other people—he doesn't sulk or shout, he acts. What if he decides to drag me into another one of those memories, force me to watch something I've buried? The thought made my chest tighten. The last time, I'd woken shaking, half convinced my mind had split open.
What else is he capable of?
I glanced toward the front seat, the curve of his neck, the stillness in his shoulders. He could have been asleep, except I knew better. That silence wasn't calm—it was control. A quiet wound dressed as patience.
What the hell did I do wrong?
The question sat in my throat, heavy and shapeless. I hated how quickly I'd turned small again, measuring my worth through someone else's quiet. It reminded me of old nights in Odette's house, counting footsteps, guessing which mood waited behind her door. That same ache—the need to know what version of cruelty was coming.
I looked away from him, pressed my fingers against the window, the glass cool against my skin. Outside, the city was already alive: vendors opening stalls, children with backpacks, a woman balancing coffee and exhaustion in the same hand. Life kept moving, unbothered. And there I was, trapped between a devil's silence and my own unease, wishing I could crawl out of my head long enough to just breathe.
The Evergarden wasn't grand like the Morrison. It sat quietly on the corner of Vanity Street, its stone walls weathered by years and its windows trimmed with ivy that no one bothered to cut. The sign out front flickered between letters, soft light struggling against the daylight. Inside, the lobby smelled of soap and old carpet—a modest place, meant for passing through, not staying.
The taxi slowed beneath the covered entrance, the doorman already stepping forward before the car had stopped.
Corvian stepped out first. He didn't glance at me or Eddie, just nodded once toward the receptionist across the lobby. She returned the gesture, wordless and quick, as though already accustomed to whatever unspoken arrangement existed between them.
Eddie squinted around, turning in a slow half-circle. "What the hell is this place?" he muttered, but no one answered.
We crossed the marble floor, the air chilled and still, and entered the elevator. The doors closed, reflecting our faces back at us—mine uneasy, Eddie restless, Corvian unreadable.
Then Corvian broke the silence. "Eddie, catch."
A flash of silver. The keys spun through the air, and Eddie caught them on reflex.
"What's this?"
"The other room," Corvian said simply. "The one I booked and never used."
Eddie looked at the tag, shrugged. "Perfect. I'll nap till Poppy gets here."
I nodded absently. "Okay."
When I turned again, Corvian was gone from my side. He was already unlocking a door at the end of the hall—my door. My throat tightened. Every step toward that room felt heavier, like approaching something sacred and dangerous at once.
He entered without waiting. I followed slowly, clutching the strap of my duffel as if it could steady me. The sound of the door shutting behind me seemed to close the world out.
Corvian stood by the window, his back turned.
"Corvian," I said, voice unsteady. "We're alone now. Can we talk?"
He didn't answer. The silence thickened until I could hear my heartbeat in it.
"I don't like this," I said, forcing the words out. "I don't appreciate the silent treatment. It scares the hell out of me, okay? I'm panicking here. So can you please talk to me?"
He turned then, calm as if he'd been waiting for that exact plea. "I warned you about Clay, didn't I?"
"Listen—listen," I said quickly, hands half-raised as if to hold the air between us still. "I'll tell you what happened."
"I don't care what happened."
"No, you have to listen," I insisted, stepping closer. "You have to hear it, okay? Maybe you're right, maybe you have a point about him, fine. I know he's fucked up, but please—just listen."
Corvian sat down on the couch, legs crossed, his posture too measured to be human. "Go on, then. Tell me."
I took a breath that hurt going in. "Okay. So—I was in the bathroom, taking a bath. Someone knocked. I thought it was you. So I said to come in, because who else would it be? But it wasn't you. It was Clay. He used his master key to get in."
Corvian's gaze didn't move. I kept talking because stopping would've meant shattering.
"When I realized it was him, I put on my robe and walked out. I was confused. Trying to set boundaries, you know? I thought maybe something was wrong. But he said that Patrick Swanson—the Minister of Trade and Public Affairs or whatever—wanted me to perform at one of his private parties." I swallowed hard. "Then he started talking about what I did at the event, wanted to know how I pulled it off. And when you came in, he was still talking. He told me to trust him. I told him he was obviously trying to seduce me and that he should back off. I don't trust him. I don't even want to see him again. That's all that happened. I swear."
Corvian watched me a long moment before speaking. "Then why are you trembling? Why are you stuttering?"
"Because I don't want you to misunderstand me, all right?" I said, the words spilling faster than I could catch them. "I don't know why you hate Clay so much, but I think I might have an idea. Still—I don't know. I don't. I just—" I ran my hands through my hair, trying to steady the shake in them. "I hate this silence. I hate not knowing what I did wrong. I fucking hate it."
The room felt too bright. My voice echoed off the walls, small and raw. He didn't move, and that stillness—the way it held—was worse than anger. It was judgment without sound.
He rose from the couch with the kind of grace that made stillness look deliberate. Every step he took toward me felt like the room was shrinking to fit the distance between us. The air had gone quiet, heavy enough to hold its breath.
When he stopped in front of me, his hand lifted—slow, careful, as though testing the air before it touched skin. His palm met my face, cool against the heat in my cheeks, his fingers resting along the edge of my jaw. I could feel the weight of his gaze more than the pressure of his hand.
"Hugo," he said softly. "I want something in return."
My pulse jumped. "What do you mean?"
"Remember after the event, at the Morrison?" His voice was low, almost tender, but every word landed with precision. "You asked me what more you could do for me. I think I have an idea now."
The silence between us stretched like thread pulled too tight. I tried to smile, though it didn't feel real. "What is it?"
He didn't smile back. "I want something from you."
"My soul?" I asked, trying to make it sound like a joke, though my throat betrayed me—dry, strained, breaking on the last syllable.
He chuckled quietly, the sound low and strange, nothing like amusement. "No. That's too bland for me. I don't like that." His thumb brushed my cheek, almost affectionate. "I want your body."
It felt as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice over my head. The chill hit first, then the pain, sharp and immediate. I blinked, searching for words that wouldn't come.
"My… my body?" I stammered. "Like—like how?"
He tilted his head slightly, as though the question were of genuine interest. "I'm still figuring out how I want it," he said. "But I'll let you know when I do. This is what I came to decide—what I want."
I swallowed, trying to anchor myself in something real, but the world felt warped, the light too bright around him. "Do you… maybe mean my body as in sleeping with me?"
He considered it for a moment, his expression unreadable. "That's a possibility. Not now. I'm telling you so you can hear it walking toward you."
Then he let go. His hands fell from my face, and the absence of them was almost worse—the loss of warmth, the empty air where touch had been. He stepped back, studying me like someone assessing damage.
"I feel like I've been giving you too much," he said quietly. "And like you said… I should get my money's worth. Or rather—my power's worth."
"Can we… can we just talk about it first?" I managed, voice thin, breaking. "Ease me into it."
He sighed, the sound soft and deliberate, like he was humoring a child. "Do I need to convince you now?"
"No. No, just… walk me through it."
"When the time comes," he said, turning away, "maybe I will."
And then he walked out.
The door closed gently behind him, no slam, no finality—just a quiet end to whatever air still held shape around me. I stood there, trembling, the echo of his touch still cold on my skin, his words crawling through my head like a sickness I didn't know how to name.
I must have fallen asleep. The kind of sleep that comes from exhaustion, not rest. When the ringing started, I didn't know what it was—just a sharp, repetitive sound pulling me out of the thick dark. The hotel room blurred into focus as I fumbled for the receiver.
Eddie's voice hit me immediately, rough and too alive for the hour. "We're at the bar. Poppy's here. You need to come down, I think Poppy likes Corrin or something."
That woke me faster than coffee ever could. "What?" I said, sitting upright, rubbing my eyes. "You think she what?"
He laughed. "You heard me. Get down here."
"I'll change and come down," I muttered, already on my feet.
I pulled on jeans and a hoodie, nothing deliberate, just the first things within reach. The air in the room was cool, still carrying the echo of his words from before—I want your body. I shoved it away, all of it, and stepped out into the corridor.
The bar felt too warm when I walked in. The low amber lights washed over everyone, softening faces, dulling edges, making strangers look friendlier than they really were. Eddie spotted me first and waved, but my eyes had already found them—Poppy and Corvian—seated close enough that their elbows almost touched.
A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat between them, another of vodka beside it, beads of condensation gathering like a slow confession. Poppy was laughing, her hand resting against her neck, her posture angled toward him as though everything in her was leaning in his direction. Corvian—Corrin, to her—was listening with that still, steady attention that always made people talk too much. He wasn't smiling exactly, but something in his eyes gave the illusion of it, that soft mirage of warmth that drew people closer.
I walked up, laid a hand on Poppy's shoulder. She turned, bright and careless.
"Hugo!" she said, leaping up to hug me. Her perfume wrapped around me—floral and strong, the kind that stays long after the person leaves. "Eddie told me you were brilliant! I wish I could've come."
I managed a small smile. "Maybe next time."
"Surely next time," she said, squeezing my arm before sitting again—closer now to Corvian than before, her knee brushing his leg as if by accident. He didn't move away.
I sat beside Eddie, directly across from them. The angle gave me a full view of their exchange: her laughter, the way she tilted her head, his composure unbroken, eyes trained on her as though she were speaking a language he already knew.
Eddie leaned toward me, lowering his voice. "She's not even tipsy yet," he muttered. "But she's laying it on thick with Corrin. I don't know, man."
I forced a tight grin, though something restless had already started turning in me.
Poppy turned to Eddie suddenly. "So you're really quitting Cole?"
Eddie shrugged. "Not sure yet. Hugo asked me to be his manager. It doesn't sound too bad. I'll figure it out."
"That's great," she said, her tone distracted, her eyes already sliding back to Corvian.
I reached into my hoodie pocket, pulled out the envelope, and slid it across the table. "Your investment paid off," I said. "This is your money back."
She blinked at it, then smiled. "You didn't have to give it back now."
"I did," I said. "A debt's a debt. I owe you more than that, really."
She tucked the envelope away with a small nod. "You don't owe me anything, Hugo." Her gaze drifted back to Corvian, and there it was again—the shift, that small bright gleam that made her whole body seem alive. "So, Corrin," she said, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger, "you said you never finished college?"
He inclined his head slightly. "No."
"I didn't finish high school," she said with a laugh. "Guess that makes us both academic failures."
He gave a quiet sound that might've been amusement. "It seems to have worked out fine for you."
"Oh, I don't know about that." She smiled. "Maybe not fine. But interesting."
Her hand brushed his forearm—light, fleeting, as if testing how far she could go. Corvian didn't pull away, just looked at her, the kind of look that told her she'd been seen, completely, and not judged for it. He nodded once, slow, like he was granting her the right to continue.
It was subtle, but it was enough. Poppy's voice softened, her laughter lingered too long, and she kept finding reasons to touch him—his sleeve, the table near his hand, the edge of his glass. And he allowed it. His replies were few, but each one measured, careful, deliberate. Every now and then, he'd tilt his head toward her, say something short that made her laugh louder than before.
I sat there pretending to listen to Eddie, but the sound of their conversation slid beneath everything else, pulling my attention back again and again. There was nothing overtly wrong about it, nothing I could name. Still, something in me tightened with each passing minute.
Maybe it was jealousy. Or maybe it was the realization that Corvian, who had always been the one to read and dissect, was now allowing himself to be read.
Poppy laughed again, high and unguarded, and reached for the bottle to pour him another glass. Corvian watched her with quiet patience, eyes half-lidded, almost serene.
It shouldn't have bothered me. But it did. The air between them felt charged, and I hated how I could sense it—how he could draw warmth out of anyone he chose, and how easily they gave it.
I looked away, tracing the rim of my own glass, telling myself I didn't care. But my chest ached with the lie.
Poppy leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped in her hand. Her hair fell over her shoulder, catching the amber light like strands of copper. "You know, Corrin," she said, drawing his name out just enough to make it personal, "you're not what I expected. When Eddie said you were Hugo's friend, I figured you'd be some mysterious, quiet type who hated people. But you're surprisingly easy to talk to."
Corvian lifted his glass, turning it as if studying how the light moved through the liquid. "You think I'm easy to talk to?"
"Well, you haven't told me to shut up yet," she said, smiling.
He met her gaze, and something in his calm sharpened—more surgical than polite. "You talk like someone who's spent a long time pretending not to be lonely."
That startled her, though she covered it with a laugh. "That's one way to put it."
"It isn't an insult," he said quietly. "It's a talent. Most people never learn to carry their solitude gracefully."
She blinked, her smile softening. "That's… actually kind of nice. You talk like you've read a lot of books."
"I've read people," he said. "Less honest than books, but more interesting."
She laughed again, gentler now, a thread of nerves in it. "You really are strange. But in the good way. You make everything sound meaningful—even when you're probably just teasing."
"Maybe I am," he said. "Maybe I'm not."
Her hand brushed his—deliberate this time. He didn't flinch, only let the contact linger before easing his fingers back to his glass.
"You know," she said, tilting her head, "most men I meet spend the whole night talking about themselves. You actually listen. That's rare."
"Listening tells me more than talking ever could."
"About me?"
His lips curved, slow and slight. "About everyone."
For a few seconds, their eyes held—hers bright, open, searching; his steady, deep, quietly consuming. The air lifted.
Eddie cleared his throat, loud on purpose. "You two sound like a philosophy podcast," he said, smirking. "Should I order another bottle before we start debating the meaning of life?"
Poppy laughed and flicked a napkin at him. "You're just jealous because he's actually interesting."
Eddie raised his hands. "Fine, fine. I'll take the compliment."
Corvian's gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer before he looked away, as if releasing her from something she didn't know had held.
Poppy turned back, grinning. "You really don't smile much, do you?"
He met her eyes. "Some things are more enjoyable to watch than to join."
Her grin faltered for a breath, then returned brighter, almost defiant. "Well, maybe I'll make you smile by the end of the night."
He gave a small nod, indulgent. "Maybe you will."
That was all. But it was enough.
I sat there, glass in hand, pretending to be absorbed in Eddie's nonsense about bookings while every word between them crawled under my skin. Corvian's voice, low and patient, wove around Poppy's laughter like smoke around flame. He wasn't flirting, not really—but he didn't have to. His attention alone made people feel chosen.
And the worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't want her—not truly. He was only seeing her, precisely as much as she wanted to be seen. From someone like him, that was always enough to pull a person closer.