The alley behind the diner is cool, damp with the smell of rain and old grease. I shove the door open with my shoulder, stepping into the narrow strip of cracked pavement and dumpsters, my heart hammering.
He follows. Of course he does.
The door swings shut behind us, muffling the clatter of dishes and the hum of voices. Out here, it's just him and me, shadows stretching long in the glow of the buzzing neon sign.
I whirl on him, anger and something darker tangling in my chest.
"Why now?" My voice trembles despite the steel I try to pack into it. "You disappear for a week, and then you show up here—in my world—like nothing happened?"
He doesn't flinch at my words. He never does. He just watches me, head tilting slightly, like I'm some puzzle he already knows the answer to.
"You think I left you," he says finally, his voice low, rich, carrying too easily in the empty alley. "I never left. I've been in you every moment, in the pulse of that mark, in the way you lie awake at night telling yourself you don't miss me."
Heat shoots through my chest, the mark answering his words with a treacherous throb. I take a step back, but he follows, unhurried, closing the space like he owns it.
"You didn't kneel," he continues, his gaze cutting through me, steady and burning. "And I could have punished you for it."
His mouth curves in something that isn't quite a smile.
"But I chose to wait. To let you feel the emptiness I leave behind."
My breath hitches, fury and shame tangling in my throat. "I don't feel—"
He cuts me off with a single raised hand, fingers brushing the air near me but not touching. His ember eyes glint, sharp and knowing.
"Don't lie to me, little mortal. You ache for what you won't admit. That's why I'm here. Not just because you missed me fucking you…" His mouth curves, a low laugh slipping out as if to mock me. "…but because you missed me. Deeply."
The sound of his laugh scrapes at me, cruel on the surface, but something in it rings hollow—too sharp, too forced. He wants me to hear the ridicule, to feel the sting of it, but my chest tightens because I can see it: a crack, a shadow in his gaze he's trying to bury beneath the joke.
His words slice clean through me, cutting past every wall I've tried to build. I want to tell him he's wrong, that I don't miss him, that I don't care. But the truth is tangled in my chest, shameful and hot: I am relieved he's here.
A week without him felt like coming up for air and drowning all at once. Every night, I told myself the hollow ache was just the mark, just his curse burning through my veins. Not me. Not my desire. But seeing him now, solid and real in the dim glow of the alley, that excuse feels thinner than paper.
It's the mark, only the mark.
He takes another step, and suddenly my back hits the brick wall. The impact jolts me, and before I can push away, he's there, crowding me with the weight of his body. Not touching yet, but so close his heat coils around me, seeping into my skin.
My breath stutters. My pulse thrums too loud in my ears.
"Tell me you didn't miss me," he murmurs, his voice a velvet snare, his ember-red gaze locking onto mine. His hand lifts, fingers brushing just shy of my jaw, and the mark flares, a molten ache that makes my knees weaken.
I shake my head, clinging to the lie, but the words won't form. My body betrays me, leaning slightly toward him, craving the very thing I swore to hate.
His smile curves, dark and knowing, and his hand finally closes the distance, the rough pad of his thumb tracing the line of my cheek. The touch burns and soothes all at once, and I bite down hard on the inside of my lip, trying not to shudder.
God, why does it feel good? I shove the thought away, pressing it down where it can't touch me. This isn't real. It's the mark. Only the mark.
But when his shadows curl faintly at my sides, teasing the edge of my blouse like phantom hands, I'm not sure I believe myself anymore.
The wall is cold against my back, but he's fire in front of me—close enough that I can feel every line of him without a single inch of contact. My chest rises and falls too quickly, each breath scraping against my throat as if my body doesn't know if it wants to fight or yield.
His thumb brushes lower, grazing the edge of my lip, and I swear my heart stops. The mark flares hot in answer, a treacherous throb that coils low in my stomach.
"No…" I whisper, though it comes out thin, unconvincing. "I don't—"
"Don't lie." His voice is silk, low enough that it vibrates against my skin. "Your body remembers me. Even if your pride wishes it didn't."
Before I can argue, his other hand braces against the wall beside my head, caging me in. The alley shrinks to nothing but him—the heat of his body, the scent of smoke and roses that I thought had finally faded.
I should push him away. I should scream. But when his face dips closer, the distance between us thinning to a breath, my pulse betrays me, fluttering against my throat like a trapped bird.
Why do I want this? The thought tears through me, raw and desperate. It's the mark. Just the mark. It isn't me.
But when his mouth hovers above mine, not touching, only waiting, my lips part anyway. My body leans forward, drawn by a hunger I refuse to name.
"Say it," he murmurs, his breath warm against my mouth, his eyes molten. "Admit you missed me. Admit you're mine."
The mark burns so hot I almost cry out. My hands, traitorous, fist in his shirt—not to push him back, but to pull him closer.
"I—" The word breaks on my tongue, half denial, half confession. My shame swells, colliding with the need that consumes me.
Then, before I can choose, his lips brush mine—light as a whisper, a spark that detonates through my chest. My knees nearly buckle, the mark surging with molten fire, and I gasp against him, the sound betraying everything I tried to hide.
He doesn't deepen it. Not yet. He hovers there, just enough to let me feel the heat of what I've already surrendered to, his smile curving wickedly against my mouth.