Chapter 1: Echoes of Absence
Chapter Text
Echoes of Desires, Shadows of Destinies
Celine lives in an isolated villa, surrounded by the silence of the hills stretching to the horizon. Her beauty is timeless, almost ethereal, in stark contrast to the silence that surrounds her. Every corner of the ancient house holds a secret, every glance a silent story. At her side is Sylus, the man who looks after the house and Celine's solitude. His tall figure moves with quiet grace, never seeking attention, but with an intensity that can't be ignored. His gaze, deep and often lost in shadow, reveals a behavior balanced between service and discretion. There were few words between them, but a silent understanding pervades every room of the mansion, an understanding that can be interpreted in many ways, but that no one dares to define. Celine, the young mistress of the house, has a beauty that transcends words, like a work of art that goes straight to the heart. Her figure, of medium height and graceful curves, radiates a delicacy that does not obtrude but envelops, like a melody that slips into the soul without being noticed. She is a perfect harmony, a balance between strength and lightness, like a breeze that caresses the face without ever becoming too strong. Her long, wavy hair flowed like a cascade of black silk. Celine's eyes, blue as the clearest sky, tinted with topaz yellow, shine with the intensity of distant stars, reflecting an unfathomable depth. They are eyes that observe without judging, yet see more than one could possibly perceive. Her long, delicate lashes frame her gaze like two butterfly wings. Her cheeks, soft and slightly rosy, take on a fresh hue with the first whisper of autumn, giving her face a freshness that fascinates and envelops you like a silent embrace. Her lips, full and plump like buds just beginning to blossom, stretch into a smile that is captivating, at once sweet and authoritative, as if every gesture is calculated to evoke both love and respect. Her face, framed by impeccable features and an artfully sculpted oval, is made even more radiant by her pale, luminous skin, which, with its delicacy, has the power to stop time. But beyond her outward beauty, Celine possesses a subtle and invisible power that binds her irrevocably to Sylus, her faithful butler. In him she finds not only a servant, but a shadow that bends to her will with the same gentle firmness as a flower that follows the cycle of the seasons. Celine is a woman who goes beyond mere grace and knows how to rule the most passionate souls with sweetness, with the smile of someone who knows that true strength is that which does not have to prove itself. But despite the luxury and harmony of its rooms, the majestic villa had become a hollow place. Over time, it has been emptied of faces and voices, until it remains suspended, almost silent, inhabited only by Celine's subtle presence and Sylus's absolute devotion. He is the sole guardian of every corner, every memory and every secret. As the corridors echo softly with his attentive footsteps, Sylus tends the house with the dedication of one who understands the importance of memory and the value of solitude. The grey sky of late autumn seemed to wrap the villa in a cloak of silent desolation. Every corner of the villa seemed to be enveloped in an ancient silence, thick and all-encompassing, permeating the air with the sweetness of a still-living dream. The villa, nestled between the hills, stood like a lighthouse in a sea of autumn green, its majestic silhouette barely outlined by the light mist that covered everything. The dark, moss-covered walls held the breath of centuries of history, while the courtyards, surrounded by trees trembling under the weight of golden leaves, seemed enchanted, suspended between the past and the eternal. Celine's home was not just a building, but a dwelling of the soul, a place where time seemed to have stood still, as if each room were impregnated with the memory of those who had once inhabited it, a life reflected in the slow passage of the seasons. The almost magical atmosphere was enveloped in a silence that touched the infinite, as if the outside world had never managed to penetrate this refuge of peace, protected by the invisible power of memory and nature. Sylus is a man of magnetic and mysterious beauty who effortlessly attracted people. His height and chiseled physique hide a strength that doesn't need to be flaunted, but manifests itself naturally, like a primal energy. His presence is subtle yet intense: a balance of power and charm that does not seek approval but captures the attention of those who know how to recognise it. Every gesture reflects an innate art: self-control, displayed with a grace that knows no vanity. His presence is never intrusive, but carries a silent power that fills every space he enters, leaving an invisible yet tangible mark. Sylus is not just a man, but a perfect balance of opposites: the strength of a mystical being and the mystery of superior refinement. His essence is never fully revealed, leaving those who observe him with a sense of fascinating incompleteness. His beauty is an enigma, something greater that can never be fully grasped. His short, silver-grey hair frames his masculine face, with a Greek nose and strong jawline that create a perfectly balanced beauty. His fair skin accentuates the intensity of his red eyes, deep and penetrating like fire, which seem to hold a world of unspoken emotions and mysteries suspended in time, dating back to ancient times. His long eyelashes intensified his magnetic gaze, captivating all who met it. Sylus is the ideal man, but not in the conventional sense. His beauty is not only physical, but reflects a refinement that shines through in every action he takes. He is Celine's butler, but their bond runs much deeper. There is a complex relationship between them, made up of devotion, respect and a secret desire that lies beneath the surface, perceptible only to those who can see beyond it. Every move he makes is measured, like a dance, and the control he exerts over himself, in every unspoken word and restrained glance, reflects a power that doesn't need to be flaunted. For all his perfection, Sylus hides a vulnerability that only Celine can perceive. It is a side of him that comes from his devotion and the desire he cannot express - an aspect that makes him more human, but also more inaccessible. His caracal-like ears, sensitive and alert, seem to catch every breath of the world, while his long beige tail, graceful and sinuous, betrays the inner struggle between discipline and animal desire. Together with his regal bearing, these details lend him an air of mystery, as if his humanity is linked to something more primal and wild. The way he dresses, in warm tones of red and brick with black details reflecting his inner strength, reflects the control Sylus exerts over himself. Sylus is not only a man of extraordinary beauty, but also of profound complexity. Every day of his life has been a journey towards perfection and discipline, but now, beneath the surface, something is slowly changing, like a fragile balance on the verge of collapse. A new emotion, a feeling he dares not acknowledge, but which he can no longer ignore. This feeling is Celine, his torment, the desire that binds him to her in an inseparable way, but which he cannot confess, not even to himself. Her presence stirred memories in both, yet for Celine, it was the weight of their shared past that surfaced. Every time he was near her, she remembered the distant days of their childhood, when his father, the family’s trusted butler, had first brought him to their home, his quiet presence easing her solitude. But the more Sylus's presence filled that void, the more Celine felt a subtle fear growing inside her, an anxiety that eluded her, difficult to understand. A confused emotion, one she had never wanted to acknowledge, and that now deeply troubled her. Celine awoke every morning at dawn, when the sky was still shrouded in the darkness of the early morning. The silence of the villa seemed to envelop her completely, a void that not only pervaded the rooms but also entered her, like a fine mist that clouded her mind. In those first moments, when the world seemed to be suspended between dream and reality, she felt surrounded by a void, a silence that spoke neither of hope nor of suffering, but only of loneliness. It was a space she knew only too well, an amplified reflection of her own essence: vast, incomplete, perpetually waiting for something that would never come. Suddenly she was struck by the memory of another moment, long ago, like a shock that made her stop for a moment before her footsteps resumed. Celine walked slowly down the hall of the villa, her eyes fixed on the polished floor that reflected her shadow. Every corner of the house seemed to tell her a story she could no longer understand. The rooms, once full of life, were now empty, silent, prisons of a time she couldn't recall without feeling pain. Her heart felt heavy, as if the house itself was asking her to face what she had always tried to ignore. It was a grey afternoon, the overcast sky pressing down on the villa. Memories of her grandmother plagued her. Since her grandmother’s death, Celine had felt a profound emptiness, as if a vital part of her past had been torn away. The grandmother had been not only a motherly figure, but also a protection against the pain that her childhood had denied her. Now this immense void made her feel fragile and lost. Celine stopped at the door to her parents' room. The shiny gold doorknob seemed to challenge her, as if it wanted to push her inside, into the place she had always avoided. Once this door had been her barrier against suffering. Her room, her safety, her escape. But now? Now the loneliness was more oppressive than any closed door. Sylus reached her in silence, as he often did. He had learned never to disturb her, to respect her space, but today he felt that something was different. He stopped behind her, noticing her tense posture and heavy breathing.
“It's not easy, is it?” he said, his voice low and warm as he watched Celine's face, which was trembling slightly.
There was no need for more. Any more words would have been unnecessary.
Celine didn't answer immediately. The door to her bedroom had always been a symbol of something she didn't want to face.
“I don't want to see their photos anymore,” she finally murmured, her voice barely audible.“I can't. They hurt too much.”
Sylus understood immediately. There was no need to explain. Celine's pain was clear in her eyes, in her hands, which trembled slightly as they rested on the door. The loss of her parents was a grief she had learned to carry from a young age, but the death of her grandmother had brought everything she had tried to bury back to the surface.
“You don't have to do this if you're not ready,” Sylus replied, moving closer to her with a calmness that seemed to contrast with the storm of emotions Celine was trying to hide. “There is no rush to face pain. There's no right moment, you just have to live it in your own way.”
Celine nodded, but couldn't speak. Her eyes remained fixed on the door, in this room that had once been full of life.
Sensing her silence, Sylus took a step forward and, almost instinctively, placed a light hand on her back. The touch was gentle, but Celine felt its intensity. A tightness formed in her chest, as if a normally hidden part of him had been revealed by that gesture.
Her heart quickened and, for a moment, she felt vulnerable, as if this touch had torn down a barrier she didn't even know she'd built. Sylus's movement was so natural, as if this caress was the only thing he could do to comfort her. His hand paused for a moment, then slid gently down her back, as if to encourage and reassure her.
“There's nothing to be ashamed of,” he said quietly, as if trying to lift a weight she couldn't bear. “Not everyone deals with pain in the same way. Everyone has their own time and their own way. And you're not alone.”
Celine felt tears well up in her eyes, but she tried to hold them back. She didn't want to look weak or show herself like that in front of him. Her heart was heavy, and her mind refused to let go of the pain. She had never been able to forgive herself for not giving her loved ones the goodbye they deserved. It was only with Sylus that Celine felt she could be vulnerable. Only with him could she allow herself to show her pain without fear of appearing weak. She didn't need to be strong with him.
“I'm ashamed...” she murmured, her voice cracking from the fear of showing her vulnerability. Then, in an instant, she lifted her eyes to Sylus, as if to say something, but the words caught in her throat. At that moment, Celine's eyes were fixed on him, unable to look away. The light filtering through the window gently caressed his face, and Sylus's expression, calm and firm but with a hidden tenderness, captivated her in a way she had never felt before. She couldn't understand why, but there was something in his gaze that enchanted her, as if all her loneliness had vanished for a moment. An unexpected feeling of protection, of connection, found its way into her heart, making her chest beat faster.
“Thank you,” she whispered, almost without realizing it, as silence enveloped them both in an intimate embrace. Celine shook her head slowly, as if trying to shake off the memory, and moved to the sink. She wet her face with water, hoping the action would bring her back to reality. The cool sensation on her skin gave her a semblance of clarity. Soon her body began to move mechanically, in tune with the rhythm of the discipline that awaited her.
Chapter 2: Discipline’s Call
Summary:
Celine trains relentlessly with Sylus, honing her body and mind to battle Wanderers. Yet every move, every glance sparks an undeniable tension between them. An unexpected moment shifts everything: can Celine resist their growing bond?
Notes:
Hello Dear Reader! This chapter dives into Celine’s training and the growing tension with Sylus. Hope you enjoy
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Her day began with a physical routine that verged on relentless precision. Before the shadows of the night had fully faded in the dawn’s light, Celine dedicated herself to a physical training that was both a necessity and a philosophy of life. Her movements, measured and precise, were a tribute not only to the strength of the body, but also to the strength of the mind, tempered to face not only the threats of the outside world but also the subtler fears within her.
Every step, every breath, every effort was a preparation, a defense against the life imposed on her: a life of struggle, of courage, but also of deep loneliness. As Celine immersed herself in her relentless routine, Sylus watched her with his usual attentiveness, his face impassive as he prepared for the morning's training. The light of dawn filtered through the curtains and caressed the marble floor of the great hall, the silence of the place broken only by the sound of her footsteps.
Celine, young and determined, tied her shoes with a focused look, ready for the intense training that awaited her.
“Ready, my lady?” Sylus asked in his low, firm voice.
Celine nodded without hesitation.
Training had become a constant in her life, a bond she had shared with him for years, ever since she joined the Hunters’ Association. Every morning, Sylus guided her in perfecting her movements, working on her body as well as her mind. Being a hunter meant facing the Wanderers, monstrous creatures that plagued the cities and surrounding areas. Each training session prepared her for this battle.
Sylus approached Celine, his bearing impeccable, every step measured, as one would expect from a high-ranking butler. But there was something different in his eyes, an unsettling calm that betrayed a hidden strength.
“We will start with the basic techniques. Your physical strength is important, but without solid technique, you have no chance. Every move must be precise, Celine. Don’t forget that.” Celine positioned herself at his side and began the first movements: kicks, blocks and dodges. Every time she made an imprecise movement, Sylus was ready to correct her, like a master who accepted nothing less than perfection.
When he noticed her posture was incorrect, his calm but authoritative voice rang out: “Celine, correct your posture. Keep your body compact, like armor.”
Every move had to be quick and efficient, without wasting energy. Sylus followed closely, positioning himself behind her to perfect every angle and tilt.
“Keep your body compact,” he said, moving behind her, his tone imbued with the quiet authority of a butler who never needed to raise his voice. “You don’t want to leave your defenses exposed for a second.”
Every gesture Sylus made was precise and measured, his body in motion seeming to emanate a powerful calm. His presence filled the space effortlessly, like a natural force that required no explanation or effort. Every word he spoke was a command, yet it always seemed to come as the most natural thing in the world.
“Fighting is like dancing, my lady—it’s not just technique. Defense is as much an art as offense. You must anticipate and react. Your defense is the key.”
Celine didn't stop, concentrated, sweat trickling down her forehead, but her determination never wavered. Every move became more precise and powerful. Sylus watched her intently, but there was also a rare hint of approval in his eyes.
As Sylus moved through the training, Celine couldn’t help but watch him. It wasn't just his physical strength that struck her, but the discipline he put into every movement. His tensed muscles, the fluidity and precision of his movements, all seemed to testify to a perfect union of body and mind. Yet whenever her eyes met Sylus’s, she tried not to be distracted, but thoughts of him—his effortless authority—stirred a growing tension, something beyond mere training. There was an innate grace to each of his movements, almost animalistic, as if control was something instinctive and natural, even when it seemed otherwise. His presence was magnetic, and Celine was drawn to him with every fibre of her being. Sylus' eyes, red and intense, expressed not only concentration, but also a spark that Celine could feel beneath her skin: a tension, a desire that grew each time they drew closer. It was as if every move he made called to her, like a force she couldn't escape.
An overwhelming wave of desire swept over her, followed by a sensation of fear, as if she were exposed to his penetrating, predatory gaze.
Sylus’s caracal ears, thin and elegant, and the long tail that moved with natural grace, accentuated his feline, instinctive presence, as if he were designed to seduce.
His ash-grey hair, short and shiny, and his piercing eyes reflected a concentration that made his figure even more magnetic. His strength, hidden behind an impressive calm, seemed to channel a sensuality that Celine could not ignore.
Sylus radiated quiet power, his training attire accentuating every muscle.
The tight T-shirt emphasized his chest and arms, the comfortable trousers gave him fluidity in movement, while the red bands around his hands indicated skill and strength. Every move he made, calculated but full of grace, concealed an animalistic sensuality that Celine found irresistible. The beads of sweat on his skin, warmed by physical exertion, and the veins that swelled and pulsed faster, transmitted a palpable energy, a primal call that Celine couldn't ignore. His very presence, magnetic and intense, stirred a desire in her that grew subtly but relentlessly, like a fire slowly gaining ground. During the training, Celine felt like an unwitting prey, surrounded by his imposing presence. Every step, every glance seemed to be part of a primal game and she realized that she was becoming a fundamental part of his world.
Concentrate, Celine she repeated to herself, trying not to be distracted. But it was impossible to ignore how her heart raced every time their eyes met.
Can you really resist all that? she thought with amusement.
On the other hand, Sylus felt a growing tension inside him, but he didn't want to give in to it. Not at this moment. Every move he made was calculated and measured, but there was something about Celine that unsettled him. Her strength, her determination... everything she was becoming touched him in a way he hadn't expected. When they were close, every breath between them seemed like a summons. It was his duty to protect her and guide her, but the feeling rising inside him was something he couldn't understand. He couldn't ignore the attraction he felt.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this he repeated to himself.
His rationality tried to regain control, but every time Celine executed a move with such perfection, a part of him couldn't help but appreciate it.
When his pupil finally executed a quick and perfect movement, Sylus was surprised, but in a different way. His face remained impassive, but there was something in his eyes, a hint of approval he couldn't hide.
“Impressive,” he said calmly, a hint of surprise in his tone. “I never thought you’d reach this level so quickly.” Her strength and indomitable spirit were his greatest pride, but this time there was also a vulnerability he would never admit to.
Then, suddenly, Celine managed to knock him down with a quick and precise move. In an instant, Sylus found himself on the ground, surprised by the speed and effectiveness of the attack. But he was even more surprised when Celine, carried by the movement, landed on top of him. Their eyes met and their panting breaths echoed in the air. Sylus remained still for a moment, his mind disoriented. Their position, so close, made them incredibly vulnerable. But a smile escaped his lips, revealing an admission of admiration.
“Very impressive, my lady,” he said in a hoarse voice, trying to hide the tension growing between them. “I did not think you would defeat me so easily. Your strength and initiative are truly surprising.”
Celine stopped, feeling a wave of pride mixed with an awkward sense of awareness.
“Thank you,” she replied, but as she looked at Sylus, a sudden thought crossed her mind. Did I really surprise him? Or maybe he... looks at me differently now?
Sylus felt the physical closeness more than ever. Every gesture, every glance from Celine seemed like a call. The desire he felt was impossible to ignore. His body, though struggling to maintain control, responded inevitably to her magnetism. Her closeness shook him like a wave that overwhelmed every barrier.
“Your strength,” Sylus said slowly, pausing as if savoring each word. “There is something about you, Celine. It’s not just the skill in your movements... It’s like every action you take goes beyond what I see. Like there’s something beneath the surface that I can’t grasp.” Celine hesitated, trying to make sense of those words. A mixture of confusion and curiosity washed over her.
Is he saying something else? “I’m not sure I understand, Sylus,” she replied, trying to keep her tone neutral, but with a slight hint of uncertainty.
“Are you telling me that I’m doing something more than what it seems?” Her mind raced in a thousand directions, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she had misunderstood.
“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to impress you. It’s just training, after all,” she said, looking at him intently.
Sylus’s gaze deepened, but the tension that had surrounded them eased. At that moment, he seemed to want to restore balance.
“Actually, the training is over for today,” he said calmly, taking a step back. “You’ve made progress, Celine.” He stood up, looking away as if not to prolong the moment of uncertainty. “There is still much to be done. Rest, we’ll continue tomorrow.”
As the session ended, Celine paused, her body tired but her eyes bright with new awareness. The vulnerability she had noticed in Sylus, so different from his usual strength, fascinated her more than she was willing to admit. Their gazes met once more, and there were more unspoken words in the silence than a thousand could say. Every little gesture between them seemed to tell a story of growing tension, an invisible but powerful bond. Every time they were near each other, Celine felt the invisible thread between them grow stronger, their connection growing, imperceptible but intense.
Sylus, in turn, felt a knot in his chest. The proximity to Celine weighed on him, but he couldn't help thinking of her, feeling her presence even as he moved away. His heart beat faster, but he tried to maintain control, not to give in to the tension that shook him more than he cared to admit. I can't be distracted, he repeated. Every word, every gesture from Celine drew him in, but his rational mind urged him to keep his distance.
But in the moment she had knocked him down, had he listened to his deepest instincts, he would not have let her go.
I’m her teacher, this is training, he justified to himself, but the desire grew every time he looked at her. I don’t know how much longer I can resist, he thought, as the invisible thread between them tightened.
“Tomorrow there will be new challenges,” Sylus said, but today Celine knew there was more to think about. As she watched her mentor leave, her path became clearer.
The training and the connection with Sylus had awakened something in her, but now there was work to be done. A new phase, a task that required her attention, her discipline, and perhaps even the same determination she was slowly learning to master. Sylus, on the other hand, still felt the weight of the situation as he walked away.
The tension had not dissolved. I can’t afford to be distracted, he repeated, but the growing attraction he felt for her was shaking him more than he was willing to admit. I’m the one who has to take care of her, he thought. I promised.
Tomorrow, I must crush this searing urge to pull her into my arms and make her mine, he thought, trying to push what had just happened out of his mind.
His heart beat faster with every step and the unease never left him. Today's training had tested not only Celine, but also his ability to keep his distance and not give in to the growing bond between them. Celine, with her strength and vulnerability, was changing something in him and he didn't know how much longer he could resist. Now he had to focus on what came next.
One step at a time, he repeated, trying to return to his role as teacher and guide.
Celine, meanwhile, struggled to concentrate on her path, but whenever they were near each other, she felt the invisible bond between them grow stronger, fuelling a tension they could no longer ignore.
Notes:
What did you think of Celine’s progress and the dynamic with Sylus? Feedback is appreciated!
Updates every 10 days or so! Thanks for your patience.
Chapter 3: A Taste of Home
Summary:
Celine returns from missions, scarred by battle. Sylus greets her with warm tea and quiet care, but a painful anniversary looms. Can their unspoken bond hold her together?
Notes:
Dear readers,
I sincerely apologize for the delay in updating this story. Unexpected commitments kept me away, but I’m thrilled to return with this third chapter. It’s a deep dive into the bond between Celine and Sylus, filled with moments of comfort, grief, and a slow-building romantic tension. Warnings: This chapter deals with themes of grief and contains implied romantic tension. I hope you’ll be as captivated by their story as I was while writing it. Thank you for your patience and support!
Happy reading,
Mikiko_Nebula.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Her work as a hunter took her away from home with a regularity that made her feel as if her life was a series of steps through dangers and shadows. Her missions constantly brought her face to face with the Wanderers, dark and unpredictable creatures that threatened the fragile peace of the world. Rarely did she return home without bearing the scars of battle, scars that testified to the cost of her determination. But every time she crossed the threshold of the villa, Sylus was there, ready to greet her with the same silent ritual she had come to recognise by heart: a hot cup of tea, freshly prepared, and a gesture that went beyond mere comfort. Without saying a word, he took care of her, tending to her wounds with a tenderness that contrasted with the harshness of her life. Every gesture, every small act of care was a relief to her battle-worn body and a quiet reminder of protection and affection. Every cup, every infusion was a caress for her soul, hardened by her daily struggles. The tea prepared by Sylus was not just a drink but a small celebration of that discreet luxury that marked Celine’s life. The blends were a moving poetry, a sensory journey that transported her far from the dark thoughts that, in that house of solitude, too often assailed her. From the fresh, grassy Japanese Sencha green tea to the delicate Darjeeling, which evoked the scent of the Himalayan peaks, each infusion was a moment of refined contemplation. Sometimes, Sylus dared with bolder combinations, mixing Chinese white tea with rose petals and wild berries, creating an elixir that evoked images of lost gardens and ancient palaces. And then there were the spice blends, the ones that warmed the soul with the embrace of winter: black tea with cinnamon, cardamom, and ginger, an Eastern call that enveloped both body and mind. For Celine, each cup of tea was a small refuge, a corner of tranquility in which she could allow herself not to be the hunter, but simply a woman, fragile and yet strong, who found comfort in the silent gestures and discreet company of Sylus. In that daily ritual, more than in the warmth of the tea, Celine found the only constant that allowed her to stay connected to reality. The solitude of the mansion grew lighter when Sylus handed her that warm cup, as if, in that gesture, all the affection that had never been expressed in words was encapsulated. Yet, in that silence, Celine recognized a truth that no words could explain: her life was made of shadows and struggles, but also of gestures that, in their discretion, spoke of love, devotion, and a presence that asked for nothing in return. Celine lived alone in the house, but she was never truly alone. Sylus, her silent companion, was always by her side, devoted and discreet. Every day, from dawn until dusk, he was there, ready to fulfill her every wish and meet every need, an invisible guardian watching over her with a dedication that went beyond mere obedience. When evening fell, the dwelling filled with the warm, reassuring sound of flames crackling in the fireplace, a melody that marked the end of another day spent together, another chapter of a story written in glances, silences, and small gestures. In that shared silence, Celine and Sylus did not need words to communicate. Their bond manifested in a deep understanding, made up of imperceptible gestures, fleeting glances, and presences that merged into the eternity of the villa, which seemed to breathe with them, fueled by the silent love that united them. The evening was slowly descending, and the time for Celine’s return had arrived. Sylus waited for her, as always, ready to greet her impeccably. As he heard the familiar echo of her heels, Sylus’s thoughts drifted to a particular evening, one that lingered in his memory like the scent of rosemary and thyme. It was a night when the weight of her silence had been heavier, and he had sought to ease it with a dinner that tasted of home. For days, Sylus had sensed a shadow creeping into Celine’s silences. She had grown quieter, as if trying to dissolve into routine, to become invisible. She spoke of work, of unyielding deadlines, of a particularly stubborn case that left her no room to breathe. “I can’t take time off now,” she had said, her eyes evasive, her voice a touch too strained. Thin, delicate lies, like tissue paper, but Sylus hadn’t challenged them. There was no need. He knew the weight that oppressed her.
The anniversary of her parents’ death was approaching, a shadow that grew darker each year, especially since her grandmother was gone. No more days at the lake, no walks to chase away the pain. Only the villa, with its thick walls and memories, and Celine, retreating into herself, barricaded behind excuses that fooled no one. Sylus had learned to observe her in silence, his ruby eyes catching every nuance of her mood. His caracal tail moved slowly, almost hypnotically, a reflection of his own state of mind, while his feline ears twitched faintly, ready to catch even the slightest sigh. I wish I could ease her pain. Tell her she doesn’t have to face it alone. But those aren’t words she’d accept. Not now. He hoped this dinner might help. It was his way of being there. Without intruding, without forcing. Just staying. For her. He had decided to wait for her. To cook with patience a meal that tasted of home, of memories, a silent refuge. A way to remind her that, even in the darkest nights, there was still warmth. And that he would be there, as always, to hold it for her. When Celine crossed the threshold of the dining room that evening, the scent enveloped her like a living memory: roasted quail, infused with thyme and rosemary—a dish her mother used to prepare on winter evenings when the family gathered around the table. The warm, spicy aroma hit her all at once, her heart gripped by a nostalgia amplified by the passage of time. The room was a sanctuary of flickering lights. The flames reflected from the chandelier danced across surfaces like elusive holograms, a interplay of ancient and futuristic that gave the villa an almost unreal aura. The fireplace crackled softly, defying the distant rumble of the thunderstorm shaking the landscape beyond the velvet curtains. Shadows trembled on the walls, as if the villa itself guarded their silences.
Sylus stood beside the mahogany table. His white shirt hugged his broad shoulders, the burnt-orange vest accentuating his tall, assured frame. His ashen hair, slightly tousled, caught the warm light, welcoming. His caracal ears twitched faintly toward her, responsive, while his golden tail swayed slowly, hypnotically, following the silent rhythm of his movements as he arranged the plates. Celine looked at him, and a knot tightened in her chest, as if an invisible thread had brushed her ribs and squeezed her heart, leaving her breathless. He’s beautiful enough to hurt. Every detail. His strong shoulders, the calm in his movements... that tail. God, that tail. She wanted only to know if he felt the same. If, behind those impeccable butler’s gestures, there hid the same need that burned within her. I want to run my hands through his hair, stroke his soft ears, pull him against me. Hold him. I want to know if he’s thought of me as much as I’ve thought of him. Sylus turned. His feline pupils dilated slightly when he saw her, but it was only a hint.
“I thought you might want something quiet tonight,” he said, a faint smile brushing his lips, gentle and intimate. “Something to make you feel... at home.” Celine swallowed. Her black silk dress flowed over her like liquid shadow, and the skin between her collarbones gleamed under the light, smooth and taut, like porcelain kissed by fire. Sylus’s gaze lingered there—on the exact spot where her pulse quickened, where emotion rose in her throat. And it stayed a moment too long, in silence. “It’s Mom’s quail,” she murmured at last, a note of surprise in her cracked voice. But then she shook her head slightly, a tired smile trembling on her lips.
“I should be amazed... and yet. You always know what I need. Even when I have no idea.” Her voice faded into a whisper, soft but with a hint of irritation, almost more at herself than at him. Why do you read me so well? Why can’t I escape you, even now? Sylus looked at her, his head slightly tilted. In his ruby eyes, there was no pity. Only attention. Care. “I don’t know what you want, Celine,” he said in a low voice, almost a whisper. “But I listen. Even when you say nothing.” He took the bottle of Chianti from the cart beside the table. The deep, dark glass reflected the candlelight like a precious stone. “Red or white?”
“Red,” Celine said, a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It was Dad’s favorite... he said it brought luck.” Sylus’s tail moved slowly behind him, attentive like an emotional pendulum. His ears tilted slightly backward, catching the pained inflection in her voice. He approached with measured slowness, silent but not cold—an instinctive, feline elegance. Every gesture spoke of respect, but beneath the surface, there was something deeper. A bond ancient, as if his body knew her more than his mind dared admit. His movements, full of respect—a perfect balance of strength and delicacy. Sylus turned with the bottle in hand. His gaze followed her as she approached, and for a moment, just one, it fell on the neckline of her dress. The black silk parted in a soft line, revealing the delicate curve of her breast. I know every line of her face, every fold of her silence. But that exposed spot... just a sliver of skin. And yet... it’s an invitation I shouldn’t even look at. There’s a part of me—the one that moves in silence, that growls within—that wants to lean in, feel the warmth, the pulse, the skin. But I could never. I am the shadow at her side, not the one who can touch her. A blink. The wine began to pour into the glass without his hand trembling. This is what she needs...
Sylus poured the wine, the ruby liquid flowing like living blood, and their fingers brushed—a fleeting contact, yet charged with electricity. Celine held her breath, surprised by the gesture that followed: Sylus pulled out a chair and sat beside her. Not across, not distant—beside. A simple act, but so intimate it felt almost subversive. So natural it seemed inevitable, as if the villa itself had dissolved the barriers between butler and mistress. She looked at him, stunned.
“You never sit,” she whispered. “Not even when I’ve asked you to, so many times. You... never do.” Sylus didn’t lower his gaze, didn’t apologize. Instead, his voice was calm, steady, as if every word were rooted in something deeper. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not tonight.” There was no plea in him, no hesitation. Only the steady presence of someone who guided without needing to impose. He was there for her, as he always had been. But that evening, he seemed closer. More human. More hers. Celine stared at him, her heart pounding, a mix of tenderness and warmth... and a hint of melancholic surrender. Because he could read her. Even when she wished to remain invisible, even to herself.
“You’re... a problem,” she said softly. Her voice came out gentle, veiled with sadness, like someone who knew they couldn’t lie, not even to protect themselves. Sylus raised an eyebrow, his mouth curving into a half-smile, ironic. “A problem?” he replied. “Miss, I’m a man who cooks exquisitely, selects wine with obsessive care, and knows every nuance of your mood. Many would give all their protocores for a problem like me.” His caracal tail flicked theatrically toward the table, a proud gesture that drew an involuntary smile from her, fragile as a thread of light in the dimness.
“You’re right,” Celine whispered, her smile trembling on her lips, thin as glass about to crack. But I’m not the one who can have you, she thought, a bittersweet blade slicing through her mind. It wasn’t surrender, nor a lament—just the acknowledgment of a distance no closeness could bridge. You’re too close to touch, too mine to truly be. She gripped the glass with both hands, seeking in its warmth the courage not to look at him too long, not to lose herself in his ruby eyes, in the feline curve of his ears, in the slow rhythm of his tail. Sylus sensed everything, as always. His ruby eyes caught the melancholy blooming on Celine’s face, a shadow made more vulnerable by the flickering candles. His caracal ears tilted slightly toward her, catching the uneven rhythm of her breath, while his tail stilled, a moment of immobility betraying the weight of his silence. He couldn’t read her thoughts, but the pain of the eve—the anniversary carving into her soul—was etched in the lines of her face, in the tense curve of her mouth. Sylus leaned forward slightly, his voice a warm whisper, like the crackle of the fireplace enveloping the room.
“Celine,” he murmured, her name spoken with a sweetness that felt like a vow, “I know this night is hard. Truly. But don’t let it take you away. You’re here, alive, with me, and tonight... if you can’t forgive yourself, at least stop blaming yourself.” His words were a balm, an attempt to soothe the melancholy veiling her gaze, a reflection of the love that consumed him but which he relegated to the depths of himself. His tail moved again, a slow arc brushing the edge of the chair, while his intense, steady gaze promised a presence no night could steal. Celine swallowed, her heart gripped by a wave of vulnerability. “But... I don’t know how to face tomorrow,” she admitted, her voice cracking, her eyes glistening with a pain that betrayed the weight consuming her. “It’s like... every year they take another piece of them away. And I’m afraid that one day there’ll be nothing left, not even of me.”
The words slipped out, raw and fragile, and she lowered her gaze, her fingers trembling around the glass. Sylus stared at her, his feline ears folding slightly backward, sensing the tremor in her voice. “It won’t happen,” he said, his tone firm but gentle, as if defying time itself. “You won’t lose yourself, Celine. Not as long as I’m here. And they... they live in you. In the gestures you repeat without noticing, in the words they left you, in your smiles—rare, yes, but true. As long as you feel this, they’ll never be truly gone. Nor will you.” His shoulders stiffened slightly, an instinctive gesture betraying his emotion, while his ruby eyes anchored her to the present, far from the ghosts of the anniversary. Celine raised her gaze, moved by his words, reassured by the strength he conveyed, but a shadow of melancholy still veiled her heart.
“Sylus,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “stay with me... not as a butler. Just... as you.” It was a plea, a desire to break down the barriers, to have the man behind the role, the only one who held her together when the world crumbled. Sylus held his breath, the urge to confess everything—that every gesture, every measured word, even the way he stayed silent beside her—was an act of love. But he stifled it, fearing that revealing it might shatter the balance binding him to her. I can’t tell her how much she means to me, he thought, his heart racing, not now, not when she needs me as a refuge. “I’m here,” he repeated, his voice rough, almost a low growl, while his tail stilled, suspended in midair, as if time itself had paused under the weight of his promise. “Always, My Lady.” The word slipped out, a reflex to hide the truth, to convince her of his devotion without revealing the fire consuming him. Celine stiffened slightly, her heart tightening. My Lady. Not “Celine.”
The word, so formal, so distant, felt like a barrier, a butler’s response, not from the man she hoped might see her as more. It’s just his duty, she thought, a bitter melancholy clouding her gaze. He sees me as his mistress, not as a woman who could... She didn’t finish the thought, but the pain enveloped her, a mix of emotion for his closeness and despair for what could not be. Sylus hesitated, then took her hand, resting on the table, his warm fingers enveloping hers, a gesture that bound them to one another. Their gazes intertwined, and for a moment, the world shrank to the warmth of their closeness, the crackle of the fireplace, the scent of thyme and wine. Sylus’s ruby eyes fell to her lips, soft and stained with Chianti, and a wave of desire surged through him—not just the need to protect her, but to feel her, to touch her skin and erase her pain. I want to kiss her, he thought, to tear away every doubt, to show her she’s everything to me. But he held back, his ears lowering slightly, as if seeking an anchor to resist. Celine looked at him, her heart in a sweet arrhythmia, captivated by his wild beauty—the perfectly tousled hair falling over his eyes, the feline ears twitching faintly, the warmth of his hand holding her together. He’s here, so close, yet so far, she thought, a repressed desire warming her blood. She felt the strength of his grip, the devotion he conveyed; an anchor against the turmoil overwhelming her. But the word “My Lady” echoed in her mind, a reminder of a distance she couldn’t bridge. Celine swallowed.
“Sometimes I feel... wrong,” she murmured, her voice a thread, fragile as the glass of the goblet she’d set down. “For wanting you so close. For seeking you, even when I say nothing. As if you’re the only thing keeping me upright.” She feared her need for him was a burden, a tether binding him to the villa against his will. What if I’m chaining you to me? she thought, a shadow of guilt tightening her chest. If I cling to you, Sylus, because I can’t hold the pieces together alone, am I stealing your freedom? You don’t deserve to be my safe place, forced to stay for my pain. Sylus stared at her, catching every nuance of her vulnerability.
His feline ears twitched slightly, sensing the tremor in her voice, while his tail wrapped tightly around the chair’s leg, a reflection of the desire consuming him. I wish I could stop pretending, Celine, he thought, his jaw clenching, a stifled growl beneath the surface. If only I could... I never asked to leave. This collar I chose myself, selfishly, for you. For me. But I want you to put the leash on me. To pull it. To bind me to you. Not just with need, not just with glances... but with all that you are. To want me as a man, not just a refuge. As yours. But he couldn’t say it. Not now. Not when she looked so fragile, so in need of a refuge, a friend. I want us to belong to each other. Without roles, without silences. Without fear. Without barriers.
“You’re not wrong,” he said, his voice low, rough with an emotion he couldn’t fully hide. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking me, Celine. I’m here... because I want to be.” His words were a bridge, an attempt to ease her guilt without confessing the need that drove him to stay, the love that bound him to her more than any duty. His tail moved slowly, an arc brushing the floor, while his piercing eyes begged her to believe him, to see beyond the role separating them. “I promised to your grandmother, Celine,” he said, hesitating for a moment, “I’d be at your side, always, as she wanted.” The phrase, strong as a vow carved in stone, vibrated with devotion, but the hesitation betrayed a shadow—was he there by his own will, because he truly desired to be with her... or because of an oath binding him to the family? Celine watched him, her lips parted, her profile brushed by the warm light of the kitchen. She wanted to reach out, to touch his hair, to trace the curve of his jaw, to feel the texture of his skin. But the fear of being too much, of breaking their fragile balance with an impulsive gesture—and of losing the only one who had never left her—held her back. “I just wish...” she whispered, “that someone would stay. Always. Even when I’m a mess.” Sylus held his breath, his heart lurching at the echo of her words.
“Celine,” he said, his tone firmer but softened by a tenderness that betrayed his inner conflict, “you’re not a mess. You’re... everything that makes this house alive.” The words slipped out, a veiled admission brushing against love without naming it, teetering between what he was and what he longed to be for her. His tail stilled for a moment, as if even his body feared revealing too much. A smile curved his lips: faint, melancholic, imbued with soft tenderness. His eyes, now calmer but still lit with a hypnotic glow, sought hers—and in the silence that followed, there was more truth than any words could hold. The clink of glasses broke the quiet, faint as a sigh.
The villa was wrapped in the muffled silence of the eve, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the distant rumble of the storm. They spoke little, but every word was a silken thread, woven with memories, fears, and that complicity made of things unsaid but deeply understood. “Do you remember that evening at the lake?” Celine said, her voice soft, a fleeting smile crinkling her lips. “Grandma telling the story of that mad fisherman, and all of us laughing until we cried.” Sylus tilted his head, his feline ears twitching slightly, a rare glint in his cherry eyes. “And your father,” he replied, his tone warm, “pouring wine like it was water, filling the glasses to the brim.” A small smile touched his lips, a shadow of care that seemed to defy the dimness. Celine returned it, her heart gripped by a genuine but vulnerable warmth, like a candle flickering in the wind. Their words, few and measured, served as a counterweight to the anniversary.
When the dinner ended, Sylus rose to clear the table, but Celine stopped him, placing a hand on his arm. The touch was light but firm, a gesture betraying her need without yielding to weakness. “Later,” she said, her voice soft but resolute, her eyes seeking his. “I’ll help you. But now... come with me. Will you keep me company?” It wasn’t a plea, but a quiet request, laced with a vulnerability that didn’t bend, as if she feared being alone with the ghosts haunting her but refused to show weakness. Sylus nodded, a quiver in his tail betraying his emotion, and followed her to the living room, where the fireplace cast a golden glow over a large leather sofa.
“Mulled wine?” he suggested, his voice a dense whisper, gesturing to a carafe on the oak table. “I’ll make it in a moment.” Celine nodded, settling onto the sofa, her legs tucked under her black silk dress. “Yes,” she replied. “But no holograms or screens tonight.” Her gaze fell on the family gramophone, a carved wooden relic that seemed to belong to a forgotten era, in contrast to the hyper-technological world beyond those walls. Sylus followed her gaze, then moved to the device, his long fingers brushing the wood with almost reverent care. “Chopin?” he asked softly, a faint, complicit smile curving his lips. “The Nocturne in C-sharp minor?” Celine watched him, and with a slow nod, accompanied by a half-smile and a gaze that softened, she whispered, “Perfect.” The first notes spread like amber mist, melancholic and slow, an ancient breath filling the room and wrapping the walls in an invisible caress. As the warm scent of mulled wine began to rise—a blend of cinnamon, citrus, and cloves—Sylus returned with two steaming mugs in his hands.
He handed one to her. Then, with a natural gesture—almost an intimate ritual—he took a wool blanket from the armrest and draped it gently over her shoulders. His fingers brushed the edge of the fabric, near her skin, lingering a moment before withdrawing, as if that touch, for him, were both prayer and condemnation. Celine gripped the mug with both hands, its warmth seeping into her fingers, and looked at him. Her heart thundered in her chest, while everything around them seemed suspended: the music, the crackle of the fireplace, the enveloping scent of mulled wine. A temple against dark thoughts. “Thank you,” she whispered, a trembling smile brushing her lips, while her eyes sought those of her impeccable butler—deep, garnet, intense as the silence binding them. He sat beside her on the sofa, their shoulders barely touching, his caracal tail moving slowly, brushing the edge of the cushion. He took a sip from his mug, then turned to her. His feline ears twitched as if savoring the comforting drink. Celine sipped too, letting the spiced flavor warm her chest, but her voice trembled as she murmured, “It’s... delicious.”
Sylus’s words caught in his throat when he saw a tear glisten in her eyes, sliding slowly down her cheek. A fragile diamond catching the golden light of the room. His heart clenched, flooded with a mix of tenderness and helplessness. Every fragment of her seemed precious, delicate... yet too distant to truly save. I can’t let her break, he thought. The desire to protect her intertwined with the silent fire consuming him, a feeling that seemed inevitable. With a gentle, comforting, and resolute gesture, Sylus set down his mug and reached out. His bare palm—gloveless—brushed Celine’s cheek. His fingers, rough but tender, wiped away the tear with a slowness almost sacred, leaving a trail of acceptance. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she remained still, her eyelids slightly lowered, almost in surrender. His thumb traced slow circles, as if, by caressing her, he could dissolve her pain without needing to explain it. Without words. Just by staying. Just by loving her in silence.
“Sorry,” she murmured, her voice thin as wet paper. “It’s just... I don’t...” A beat of silence. Sylus shook his head slowly, a gesture without harshness, only an intense tenderness, as if rejecting the very idea that she should apologize. Then, without breaking contact, he tilted his face slightly toward hers. He looked at her with a gaze fierce yet soft, as if he saw every hidden wound and wanted to absorb them all. “Celine,” he murmured, his voice low, vibrating with emotion, “you don’t have to carry this weight alone. Especially tonight. I’m here... and there’s nothing you could lose, not with me beside you.” His words were a vow, a bridge cast between her darkness and the flickering light of hope. An “I” that wanted to be more. A “here” that was home. Celine swallowed, the warmth of Sylus’s hand on her cheek calming the turmoil in her chest.
“I don’t know, Sylus, I...” she whispered, her voice cracking, her glistening eyes clinging to his. “Sometimes I feel I don’t deserve you. That I’m... too broken to keep you here.” It was a fragile confession, an echo of her fear of binding him, but also a desperate need to feel him closer, to know he wouldn’t vanish like the rest. A half-smile curved his lips, warm but with a hint of irony.
“Too broken?” he repeated, his voice lightening, as if to pull her from her suffering. “Celine, if you’re broken, you’re a vase whose cracks shine like threads of gold. And me? Just a cat keeping this old villa together, no?” The jest, light but laden with affection, was an attempt to make her smile, to bring her back to the present, away from the ghosts haunting her. Celine let out a short, genuine chuckle, slightly marred by soft sobs, like a ray of light piercing the clouds. The smile blooming on her face was fleeting but alive, a glow defiance the room’s shadows. With an instinctive gesture, she placed her hand over his, still resting on her cheek, intertwining her fingers with his. She felt the contact of his bare skin, and she didn’t want to let go. It was a vivid, intense sensation, a reminder that he was real. He’s here, she thought, butterflies dancing in her stomach. His hand, his strength... But he’s mine only now, not beyond. The sweetness of that touch mingled with the fear that it could all vanish, fragile as the music enveloping them. Sylus looked at her, her scent mixed with cinnamon. Her touch was a torment he was addicted to, a fire that burned without exploding. She’s here. So sad.
So mine... and she doesn’t know it. He wanted to hold her, to linger on her skin until he forgot every restraint, to give in to the desire burning within him. To confess that every gesture—every care, every caress—was for her. Not for the villa. Not for a promise. Only for her. But her fragility held him back. Because if he took one step further, he would kiss her. And then—he wouldn’t stop. And losing Celine... was the one thing he couldn’t afford.
He caressed her cheek again, then leaned back against the sofa, letting her come closer. Celine rested her head on his shoulder, finding comfort in the strength and security he always exuded. Her hand now clasped his, resting on her leg, their fingers intertwined. He let her. His thumb traced slow, invisible circles on the back of her hand. Occasionally, her breath brushed his neck. And each time, something tightened in his stomach. A different hunger. A need he couldn’t satisfy. A faint smile curved his lips, as if a memory had flickered in his mind. Celine sensed it. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice low, almost sleepy. He tilted his face toward her, his eyes softening. “Do you remember that time at the lake?” Sylus began, his voice a whisper weaving into the music.
“Your grandmother convinced everyone to race boats. Your father and mine got soaked, and you laughed so hard you fell into the water.” Celine smiled, her eyes closing slowly. “And you pulled me out,” she murmured, her voice growing fainter. “As always.” The warmth of the mulled wine and Chopin’s notes enveloped her. The rhythm of Sylus’s breathing and his scent of cedar and earth lulled her, drawing her into a quiet sleep. She surrendered against him, her breathing slowing and steadying. Sylus watched her. Her lips slightly parted, still scented with mulled wine. He stroked her hair, following the strands with infinite care, his heart gripped by a love he could never escape.
It was like a seed grown in silence, which, day by day, with the right care, had put down deep, intricate, invisible roots. Now it was a majestic tree, capable of shedding leaves but never withering. It bloomed every time he saw Celine smile.
When her breathing deepened, Sylus lifted her carefully. Her light body against his chest. He carried her to her room, laying her on the bed with a tenderness almost sacred. He lingered a moment, watching her, then withdrew silently, letting the villa watch over her. As he closed the door behind him, the villa’s silence enveloped him, a quiet guardian of their shared moments, until the distant echo of her heels pulled him back to the present. The memory faded, but its warmth lingered in Sylus’s chest as he stood in the quiet villa, the echo of Celine’s heels drawing him back to the present. Each step was a reminder of the bond they had begun to forge, a promise of moments yet to come.
Notes:
Thank you for reading this chapter! The dinner between Celine and Sylus was a pivotal moment, a step toward something deeper. In the next chapter, we’ll explore more fragments of their intimacy. What do you think of their connection? Is it drawing you in? Please leave a comment; I love hearing your thoughts! Please note that the story’s rating will change to Mature in the next chapter due to more intense sensual content.
See you soon with the fourth chapter.
Warmly,
Mikiko_Nebula.
Chapter 4: The Rhythm of Want
Summary:
[Content Warning: The rating of this story has changed from Teen and Up Audiences to Explicit due to graphic depictions of erotic fantasies and intense sexual tension. Please proceed with caution if sensitive to mature themes.]
Celine and Sylus’s dinners become an intimate haven, but a piano session and a dance spark uncontainable desire.
Notes:
Welcome to this new chapter! Please note that the rating has changed from Teen and Up Audiences to Explicit due to detailed erotic fantasies and intense sexual tension. This chapter contains graphic descriptions of desire and mature themes. The content is highly sensual and includes explicit language. Reader discretion is advised. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the slow burn journey of Sylus and Celine!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sound of Celine’s heels echoed through the silent corridors of the villa like a clear cadence, a secret harmony that only their stillness could fully capture.
Every step of the young mistress was a hymn to her presence, an echo that vibrated in the air as if time itself had paused to listen. The rhythm of her steps, precise and measured, merged with the intensity of an atmosphere that had always been her companion: that dwelling, keeper of memories and silences, seemed to breathe in sync with her walk.
Sylus, with his feline hearing, sensed that sound as a symphony vibrating in his soul, familiar yet ever alive, steeped in subtle anticipation.
The rhythm of her heels was the heartbeat of a life flowing slowly, woven with subtle, inescapable cadences.
It was a prelude announcing the return of the mistress, bringing with it the aura of a day spent in duties and responsibilities, but also that subtle, undefinable fatigue that only the solitude of the evening can bestow.
As he heard the sound of Celine’s steps crossing the hallway, Sylus found himself reflecting on those moments that had silently helped shape their bond.
After that fateful dinner on the eve of her parents’ anniversary, their evenings had transformed. What began as a single meal to ease Celine’s grief became a quiet ritual of shared dinners, where the clink of cutlery and the warmth of refined dishes softened her solitude.
In those moments, Celine, usually so reserved, found in Sylus a confidant who listened without judgment, his calm presence drawing out her deepest thoughts—her missions, her choices, her unspoken fears. Sylus, in turn, shared glimpses of his own struggles, his words weaving a bond that grew stronger with each passing night.
Between a shared smile and a fleeting glance, those dinners became a refuge, a testament to the closeness sparked by that one unforgettable evening.
The pearl-grey walls framed an intimate setting, adorned with modern furniture and ancient objects that whispered stories of times gone by.
Renaissance paintings decorated the walls, each with its own story to tell, while a full bookshelf occupied one wall, with classic tomes that Sylus loved to read with devotion. Every night, when the mansion grew silent, Sylus would hear the sound of his gramophone, a gift from Celine’s family.
The vinyl notes blended with the crackling of the fire, creating the ideal atmosphere to reflect on the past, the present, and what might have been.
The notes that filled the room seemed to tell ancient stories, share memories, and every melody seemed to weave an ever stronger bond between their hearts.
As the villa stood wrapped in the quiet of the night, Sylus waited for Celine’s return, the echo of her heels a reminder of the bond they had built—one meal, one dance, one silent gesture at a time. Often, the evenings turned into a refuge of intimacy, where the crackling fire in the hearth warmed the atmosphere with a familial heat.
Sylus closed his eyes, lost in the memory of when Celine had insisted on teaching him to play the piano, that old string instrument that had been in her family for generations.
It was a sound he could never mistake: that precise, steady rhythm, hypnotic like a heartbeat, a Pavlovian reflex that ignited his senses.
Each step announced her presence, unsettling and beckoning him with equal force. Even now, that memory burned vividly, as if it had happened yesterday.
That metallic, elegant, and resolute sound pierced beneath his skin, not merely due to his feline hearing. It was her body speaking before any word or gesture: the echo of a craving that preceded conversation. One evening, in particular, haunted him, a fire that refused to die.
Each step carried the scent of the night: skin warmed by the day, a perfume of amber and white flowers laced with an intimate, that made him clench his fists. His ears folded back involuntarily, a gesture that betrayed his craving, a desire only those who knew him could read.
Celine entered, trailing the weight of a day of duties but also that intangible fatigue the evening bestows, the kind that melts defenses and unveils desire. Seated in the armchair by the fireplace, Sylus watched her approach unannounced. The fire crackled softly, its warm light caressing her skin like an amber veil.
She wore a short black skirt that clung to her hips with every step, revealing the smooth curve of her thighs, a dance of strength and grace that pinned him in place. Her light blouse parted at the chest, hinting at the edge of her bra grazing her skin, a detail that dried his throat.
When Celine bent to light a candle, the fabric stretched over her hips, outlining her curves in a way that was almost provocative, though unintentional.
Sylus knew he shouldn’t, but his eyes locked onto her, lust pulsing through his veins.
How long can I keep being her butler? he thought, though the fire coursing through him, taut and alive, spoke otherwise.
But when she turned, her gaze pinned him: a mix of fatigue and something sharper, a spark that made him doubt. Was it just the fire’s light, or was there intent in the way she looked at him?
He imagined his hands gliding down her back, lifting her skirt, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck.
“Have you practiced today?” Celine asked, gesturing toward the piano, a slow smile that seemed to know the torment she caused.
“No. I was waiting for you.”
“So you have time for a break… or do you prefer to keep watching me from afar, like a crow?” she said, her smile teasing, her eyes glinting with mischievous light.
Her voice was a temptation, every resistance slipping away.
Sylus nodded, and she moved to the piano without waiting for a reply. “Let’s play.”
Celine sat on the stool, crossing her legs with a grace that nudged her skirt a little higher. The soft light ignited the bare skin of her thighs, and Sylus didn’t look away, captivated by the edge of the fabric that dared him. He approached, sitting beside her, his heart pounding. For a moment, he longed to wrap his arms around her from behind, press his chest against her back, let their breaths mingle. But he stopped, a liquid hunger coursing beneath his skin.
“You never told me if you truly enjoy playing,” Celine said, her fingers brushing the keys like wings.
“Of course, I find it stimulating,” he replied, his voice low. “But it’s in the pause between the notes that the truth hides.”
He paused, then added, without looking at her: “Sometimes, silence says more than we could ever allow.”
She smiled, a smile that stole his breath, and touched a strand of her hair, a gesture that seemed to dance with his desire.
Celine began to play, a lively melody, a crescendo of rapid notes that mirrored the pulse of his longing.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, the piano—a generational relic, untouchable—vibrating under her touch.
Sylus didn’t watch the keys. He watched her: her sharp profile, her parted lips as she focused, her hair tied back with rebellious strands slipping over her temples.
Her breasts, from that angle, pressed lightly against his arm, curving just beyond the edge of her open blouse, a detail that turned every note into torment.
“Do you remember this passage?” Celine asked, unaware of the fire she kindled, the melody quickening like his heartbeat.
“More or less,” he lied, his voice low, as his gaze slid over her body. He yearned to kiss her as one kisses what should never be touched, to take her there, on the wood that had cradled generations, and make her his. In his mind, it had already happened a thousand times.
Her hands sought his, cold but delicate, to guide him. When Celine touched him, her fingers lingering on his, a dream overwhelmed him.
He imagined her sprawled across the piano, sweat dripping down her neck, her hair fanned out like a wild halo.
He drove into her with aching control, his broad shoulders tensed above her, hips gliding like a predator’s—slow, deliberate, precise—hitting that deep, quivering place that made her shudder.
She moaned, her back arched, her hands clawing at his shoulder blades. His muscular arms held her tightly, veins pulsing beneath taut skin, a pagan god claiming his muse.
He deflowered her on the family piano, her body and the wood trembling in a sacrilege that aroused him more than he cared to admit, a thrill that curled deep in his gut and refused to fade.
The polished wood, consecrated by generations, creaked beneath them, the strings humming a forbidden hymn.
Celine, consumed by passion, whispered, “I want you… more,” her voice broken, her fingers fiercely entwined in his hair.
She kissed his sweat-drenched chest, then his mouth—a ravenous, desperate kiss.
His tail, mischievous and alive, slipped between her thighs, probing and teasing, delighting her with its firm softness.
The tail was sacred in caracal intimacy—a gift meant only for her, an extension of his carnal devotion.
He licked her neck, savoring her sweat, then her breasts, nibbling with restrained hunger, dreaming of her fingers on his soft ears—the most intimate touch between love and lust.
Celine’s sex enveloped him with a perfect, living grip, her body embracing him like a temple, her legs wrapped around his back.
Then she bit his neck, her teeth sinking in with sweet violence, and Sylus groaned and came, his member pulsing inside her, filling her.
For a caracal, that bite was an eternal vow, reserved for a lifelong mate.
With a human, it was forbidden—a sin his people would never forgive.
But he didn’t care: that bite was love, stronger than any law. Dreaming of a family with her was madness, a betrayal of his butler lineage.
But he, like Celine—an orphan of everything—was alone. That bite became refuge, a pact, a home.
He thrust once more, deeper, and Celine tightened—her climax erupting a moment later, like a wave that overwhelmed.
Their ecstasy painted an invisible altar. As he came, Sylus leaned down, his face between her breasts, breathing her warmth, holding her tightly.
Celine arched like an inspired muse, her soft body straining with pleasure. They were so close. She moaned loudly, then whispered
“Sylus…” in his ear, sensual and sweet. She kissed his neck, nibbled his ear—an instinctive gesture that consumed him.
She embraced him fiercely, one hand in his hair, the other on his back: still welcoming him, her sex still gripping him.
And he thrust again, slowly—each motion making her quiver—and he reveled in it, with her, their bodies entwined.
He kissed her breasts, a sacred tribute, then her forehead, gently brushing back her sweat-damp hair.
Finally, he kissed her—a deep kiss, laden with meaning. A meeting of souls.
But it was only a dream.
Her fingers brushed his, pulling him back to reality.
In the delirium of his thoughts, he was truly grasping her. He felt the tender flesh of her ring finger beneath his fingers and heard her barely restrained moan. He had gripped her finger too tightly, unintentionally.
Celine’s voice snapped him out of it
“Yes, that’s good… but let’s try not to break my finger,” Celine whispered, a suggestive smile curling her lips that stole his breath.
Only then did he realize how tightly he held her, their bodies mere inches apart.
How his tail, alive and independent, had moved slowly, slipping behind her back, brushing her hip, grazing almost imperceptibly the curve of her waist and the soft, provocative arc of her backside. Celine didn’t pull away. If anything, she seemed slightly more aware.
“Sylus, your tail keeps the rhythm better than you do,” she whispered, a mischievous smile curling her lips, her eyes gleaming with an unconscious challenge.
She didn’t know.
That tail wasn’t merely an extension of his body.
It was an instinctive reflection, a feline extension of his desire.
The living flesh of his arousal.
And in that moment, it was touching exactly where he wanted to thrust with force, to sink into her, to feel skin against skin, moans mingling with breath, with flesh.
Sylus looked at her, and every thought yielded to need. You must cool your passions, he told himself.
You must think. But his body had already decided otherwise.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from her lips, nor ignore the trail of heat climbing up his spine.
“I didn’t realize I’d… gripped you too tightly,” he said at last, his voice deeper, huskier, almost thick.
He swallowed, then forced a half-smile, deliberate, calculated.
He didn’t want her to see the fire consuming him.
“Perhaps… I got carried away in the moment.”
His voice was rough but steady, a low tone laced with irony, as if he were the one setting the rhythm.
As if he weren’t on the verge of losing control.
Too much. One more moment, and he would take her, right there, without restraint.
Time seemed to have frozen, yet every passing second burned incandescently. Their hands remained entwined, neither seeming to want to let go. Yet his arousal throbbed, hard, stirred by a raw, undeniable desire.
Was he ashamed of that hunger? Perhaps. But only for a moment. At twenty-nine, he felt every principle fade, with her so close—his mistress, the woman he should never touch. It had been too long since he’d indulged. Too long since he’d restrained himself. And now that tension made him dangerous.
Like a man accustomed to control, on the brink of losing himself. A wolf, starved for weeks, savoring the scent of prey.
How long had it been since Celine carried the scent of a man? Only Liam, perhaps. But that scent had faded. Thankfully.
Sylus remembered that scent perfectly, Liam’s mingling with hers, seeping into his senses whenever he drew near.
Now her skin was bare, new, pure, free of that blend of pheromones and fluids he recognized as the mark of another body. And her gaze, warm and elusive, seemed a silent invitation. Sylus hoped—with a burning madness—that she was burning too. That she craved him with the same hunger.
The music stopped. Celine turned, her face a breath from his.
“You’ve learned quickly, well done,” she whispered. Her warm breath grazed his lips.
After imagining her like this, after dreaming of her in his arms, that closeness was torture.
“I had an excellent teacher,” he murmured, a half-smile on his lips, his voice thick with desire.
One breath, and he would have kissed her.
But he pulled back.
With the calm of one who had learned to master impulse.
His body was taut, ready. Beneath his skin, a dull, ancient warmth pressed like restrained lava.
The distance was nothing. The air grew thick, the silence heavy with promises. Two centimeters, one movement, and he would have kissed her. That heavy, liquid hunger surged within him. But fear pinned him in place.
Celine looked away, a shadow of something—desire, perhaps—in her eyes, resuming her playing. They played for a few more minutes, but the music was a distant echo.
“You should rest,” Sylus said, his voice hoarse, his body tense, breaking the moment.
Celine looked at him, a shadow of something—desire, perhaps, or frustration—in her eyes.
“Some melodies shouldn’t fade so soon… but perhaps we’re not ready to hear them through,” Celine murmured, her voice tinged with sweet melancholy, her eyes drifting for a moment as if the words had slipped out, before seeking his with a desire that trembled faintly.
Her scent lingered in the air, leaving him with the weight of what went unsaid.
Sylus stared at her, his amber eyes burning in silence. His tail quivered, barely brushing the air beside her. His fingers, still on the keys, grazed hers in a light, restrained touch. A tense smile flickered across his lips, then he dipped his head slightly, his face shadowed with torment.
They remained there, side by side, their fingers hovering over the keys, desire vibrating between them like an unplayed note.
That moment at the piano had kindled a fire that never died. But another evening, another rhythm, tormented him even more.
The memory of a dance, of bodies seeking each other, pulled him back to the hall where every step had been a step toward the unknown.
At first, Celine had adamantly refused to take dance lessons. She protested, complained, found every excuse to avoid it. Sylus, however, had never given up.
With steady—almost stubborn—patience, he taught her the steps of the mazurka and the waltz.
“It’s not that hard,” he would say, holding her hand, guiding her with a touch that was firm yet careful, as if he already knew how soon that contact would become essential.
“I know… but every step feels longer than I expect,” she would reply, trying to keep up, stumbling slightly with the rhythm, as their bodies drew closer with each movement.
Over time, the obligation had turned into a game. And that game into something subtler. The distance between their bodies shrank with every laugh, every correction. Until it was nearly gone.
That evening, the hall was bathed in warm, muted light. The curtains let the moonlight filter through, and the gramophone played a slow, liquid melody.
Sylus offered his hand. Celine took it. Not with resignation—not anymore—but with a desire she couldn’t even hide. The black dress she wore clung to her skin like a fragile alibi. Her bare back, her left leg revealed with every step: it was a statement.
He led her with fluid grace, his height enveloping her. A gentle, ravenous predator. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic. Each step, each touch, seemed part of an ancient, silent rite. A dance that wasn’t just about the body but about the restrained desire coiling beneath the skin.
“Another step,” he murmured. His voice was dark, thick, like a kiss spoken with the tongue against the palate. Each word seemed to melt into the air, warm, tangible.
“It’s not that simple, but I’m not giving up… can you keep up with me, though?” she retorted, laughing, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Her tone was light, but her gaze wasn’t. That was a promise.
He smiled, barely containing the pounding in his chest.
“Every step forward counts.” He took her hand gently. “Don’t stop trying. Practice makes perfect.”
Sylus led her with a grace that was anything but human. His steps were precise, measured, but beneath that elegance lay a fierce attention. As if every touch, every breath, was a way to hold back. To keep from sinking. Each movement felt like a step closer to the edge. They danced as if brushing against a boundary—the one between dance and surrender.
Celine followed his rhythm now. She moved fluidly, with an abandon that wasn’t resignation but lucid yielding. The black dress hugged her body like a second skin.
Her bare back burned in his eyes. Each time she turned, her leg bared her thigh. One breath, and everything would collapse.
The music enveloped them, but it wasn’t the music setting the rhythm. It was their bodies, the way they sought each other, brushed against each other, held back.
His fingers closed around her hand. His palm, with each turn, returned to her back, resting just above her hips. And the way she, slowly, surrendered to him.
She lifted her eyes to his.
"In the end… you’re the one pulling me along,” she whispered, her warm breath grazing his skin. “I don’t know why I resisted.”
Sylus didn’t look away.
He didn’t answer immediately. Inside, something was tearing him apart. Lust, yes. But not only that.
There was hunger.
And terror. A desire with no return.
“What if I’m teaching you to dance toward the unknown?” he murmured, his voice hoarse, a whisper that caressed her skin like the rhythm of their bodies.
They kept dancing. Their bodies brushed, then sought each other. Their legs touched with every step.
Each slow twirl was an excuse to draw closer still. Sylus’s palm slid across her bare back, pausing just above her hips. Her skin radiated heat. And that glow surged up his arm like a dangerous impulse.
Their bodies moved mere inches apart. Every step was friction. Their hips grazed, her breasts pressed lightly against his chest each time she drew near.
The scent of her skin was everywhere: sweet, warm, almost sinful.
Celine’s hip brushed his tail—a light contact, but charged with silent attention. He felt it sway, slow, as if speaking a voiceless language. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let that touch linger. A caress that was almost a challenge.
A tension that needed no words, only presence.
He stiffened slightly, imperceptibly. His tail curled in midair, taut, hesitant, as if wrestling a deeper instinct. But his grip on Celine remained steady.
He was her anchor—and he couldn’t afford to lose that role.
As they spun between the bookshelf and the old piano, she stumbled, missing a step. Sylus caught her instinctively, but in supporting her, he threw his own body off balance. His foot hit the edge of the rug, and in an instant, his back slammed against the bookshelf with a dull thud.
She fell against him, clinging to his neck to stay upright. Her leg slipped between his. Their hips pressed together.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low.
Celine giggled, still hanging onto him. “No… sorry. I think I lost the rhythm.”
He smiled too, his chest still rising quickly. “Then it’s all fine.”
But they didn’t move.
Her leg stayed there, between his. Her hands roamed his chest with a curious delicacy, as if seeking an answer in the shape of his breath. Then they reached his neck, and finally the nape. Her fingers wove into his hair, as if to hold him there, just a little longer.
Celine’s breasts pressed against his chest. Her scent—amber, white flowers, and a freshly bloomed note of damp lily of the valley—seeped into him, intoxicating.
In that unsteady embrace, he lifted her slightly, fearing she might fall. In seeking her eyes, he had to tilt his head toward her. Her breath grazed his throat. His heart roared in his chest. His hands moved on their own: one rested at her nape, among her loose hair, the other slid slowly down her bare back… until it settled between her back and her hips. Not forcefully, but with a decisiveness that said everything.
Celine didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she pressed herself closer, her lips slightly parted, her eyes glistening.
He could feel her. Warm. Warm in that way that wasn’t yet full desire but carried its traces: a liquid, latent tension, like embers beneath the skin.
Her left leg, bare beneath the light dress, had settled—unintentionally—right between his legs.
And there, she could feel him. Not fully aroused, but taut. Present. His body betrayed him, despite himself. Celine’s eyes widened for a moment, her breath catching, as if she too sensed the dangerous tension between them. But she gripped his neck tighter, a tremor betraying her turmoil.
Sylus clenched his jaw.
Relax.
Not now. Not yet.
But his body defied every command.
She tensed, then—slowly—rested her forehead against his. They stayed like that, motionless. Breath against breath. Then Celine brushed her nose against his, a light, almost involuntary gesture.
It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet. But it was intimacy. Raw, real.
She brushed her forehead against his. Then her nose, with a disarming tenderness. Her lips didn’t seek his. Not yet. But every touch was a suspended promise.
Sylus closed his eyes. He held her tightly, and his tail—taut—curled around her thigh, an instinct he couldn’t suppress. It trembled slightly, as if seeking a grounding, a reason to resist.
“Celine…” he murmured. It was a rough, almost broken whisper.
Their mouths were so close. A slight tilt would have been enough. But he didn’t do it.
Hunger was everywhere. In the tension of his muscles, in their short breaths, in the need held back by force. The only thing he could do to keep from giving in and kissing her was to press his lips to her cheek.
His lips slid across her cheek. A slow, carnal kiss intended for her lips but stopping just short.
The kiss was long. Heavy. Then another, lower, near her jaw. His tongue grazed her skin, wet, warm, hungry. And again.
He didn’t stop. He sighed, hot, against her ear. And again, on her neck.
He slid his cheek against hers, slowly, rubbing, seeking her. It was like marking her with his skin. With his need.
As his right cheek brushed her left, a slow and burning contact, her hand rose, trembling, to touch his face.
Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, soft but resolute, and Sylus closed his eyes, basking in the warmth of that touch, a pleasure that pierced him like a sweet blade.
Celine moaned softly. The sound melted against his chest, like a secret. Her hands gripped him tighter.
Her body strained toward his, as if the contact was no longer enough.
Sylus’s feline ears—those of a caracal—twitched, taut, grazing her lips faintly. A breath. She inhaled, and as she exhaled—or perhaps it was a faint moan—her lips brushed his feline ear.
Sylus’s ears quivered violently, a shiver racing down his spine, his muscles tightening like cords.
My lady… if you keep this up, I won’t be responsible for myself…
Then, unable to stop, he pressed his mouth to the hollow of her neck, breathing deeply, as if he wanted to drink her in. But his intent was clear.
It was hunger.
And his tail stiffened completely, tapping lightly against her skin, as if that contact was no longer enough. As if it sought an escape for the desire.
He buried his mouth in her skin but stopped a millimeter from biting her. His tongue lingered, slow, in a gesture that could no longer be mistaken for anything else. He wanted her. And she knew it.
Celine let out a sound. Not a moan—something rawer. A broken gasp of restrained pleasure. She pressed herself against him, her nails digging into his neck.
“Sylus…” she murmured. It was a plea and a challenge.
Your “Sylus…” breaks me. I’d pin you against the wall, your body arching, your trembling thighs parting, craving my touch.
One hand would seize the nape of your neck, the other shredding that flimsy skirt to bare your pulsing, dripping heat. I’d taste you first, my tongue devouring your slick folds, my fingers plunging deep inside you, tormenting your wet core, drinking your frantic moans as you shatter, begging for my teeth to graze your neck—a forbidden vow that would bind us forever. Then I’d plunge into you, fucking you raw, merciless, until your desperate screams of my name damn us both, claiming you as mine and me as yours alone in the villa’s silence.
But he didn’t.
Because the fear that she might slip away, that she might leave… was stronger than any need.
And then… the sharp scratch of the gramophone’s needle.
A cut through the enchantment.
Sylus opened his eyes, his mind still wrapped in the darkness of desire. His breath broke. He had shut everything out, and in an instant, reality had pulled him back. He had nearly lost control. And he couldn’t allow it.
Stop before it’s too late!
With agonizing slowness, he let her slide down, gently. His muscles taut, he released her with measured movements, as if every fiber of his body protested.
“It’s late…” he said finally, his voice straining for a control that was already fractured. “We’re done for tonight…”
His hands detached from her slowly, trembling, as if every fiber refused.
Celine looked at him. Her lips flushed, her breathing uneven, her heart racing.
Her eyes were dark, glistening. Heavy with something neither dared to name.
She stared at him for a long moment. Then whispered, “You taught me to dance… but you didn’t tell me how to stop.”
A tense silence fell between them.
Then she brushed his cheek lightly. A touch full of gratitude and tenderness.
“Thank you,” she said, before turning and walking away slowly. Leaving behind her scent. And absence.
Sylus closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of her hand on his cheek, a touch that burned like a brand. I
nstinctively, he wanted to grab her wrist, pull her back against him, hold her and whisper, Don’t go. But he stood motionless, his heart roaring against the cage of fear.
The hall stood empty. A silent witness to a desire that had only begun to take shape.
And within Sylus, the memory of her—warm skin, breath so close, promises never broken—still burned.
In the present, Sylus touched his neck, where he had dreamed of Celine’s bite, his fingers still trembling with the memory of that night at the piano and that dance.
Then he adjusted his collar, his unbuttoned shirt revealing the taut outline of his abdominals, a futile gesture to stifle the surge consuming him.
Every time he thought back to those evenings, he wondered: what if I had leaned in at the piano?
What if I had kissed her against the bookshelf, letting desire sweep us away?
Those unkissed moments, those suspended notes and steps, tormented him more than any act.
Notes:
Thank you for reading this chapter! As noted, the rating has shifted to Explicit to reflect the deepening intensity of Sylus and Celine’s connection, explored through sensual memories and unspoken desire. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments—your feedback means the world! The next chapter will be even more intense, as an event will draw Sylus and Celine closer, binding them in ways they can’t ignore. Stay tuned, and thank you for joining me in this slow burn tale!
Chapter 5: A Breath from the Edge
Summary:
Celine returns, wounded. Sylus comforts her with fierce care, but their desire threatens to shatter their restraint.
Notes:
Hi, dear reader! Welcome back, to A Breath from the Edge. Dive into the complex bond between Celine and Sylus, where danger meets intimacy, with moments of hurt/comfort and raw, primal instincts. I hope their connection draws you in! I proofread this at night, so please forgive any mistakes. Comments and kudos are my fuel—let me know what you think!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Evenings in the villa were a sanctuary, a suspended interlude between business and bloodshed, where the outside world seemed forgotten beyond the gates. The artificial crackle of the fireplace and the delicate notes of an old automated piano filled the rooms with a studied, almost programmed calm. It was here, among walls clad in ancient boiserie and pulsing holographic panels, that Celine and Sylus found respite. A balance: fragile, silent, but deeply rooted. Few words, precise habits, a quiet connection that sufficed for both.
Sylus wasn’t wearing his usual suit. No jacket, no tie, no “butler” demeanor. His black shirt was unbuttoned to the chest, revealing taut skin and prominent veins along his arms, while a silver chain hung at his neck, adorned with a small, gleaming fang. His black trousers, impeccable, clung with near-tactical precision. His caracal tail swayed slowly behind him, feline ears alert, tense.
He hadn’t changed out of distraction or disarray, but out of exhaustion. Celine’s message—“Not coming back for dinner”—had arrived hours earlier. After that, silence.
She’d been on edge for days, snappish, withdrawn. He’d tried to probe, to understand, to coax even a fragment of truth from her, but got only half-answers. Still, he knew: something was brewing. A delicate operation, perhaps illegal, certainly dangerous.
He’d resisted the urge to storm out and scour the city from top to bottom, starting at the Hunter Association’s headquarters and pushing as far as his name could open doors. Instead, he stayed. Organizing environmental contracts for the family estate, managing logistics, travel, negotiations. He polished her father’s ceremonial blade. He sorted every onboard archive, every file. He even tried—futilely—to play a Bach fugue.
Anything to avoid thinking the worst.
Then, a sound. Faint. A dragging step.
His ears pricked. His heart skipped a beat.
Celine. Her unmistakable scent.
His feline sense of smell recognized her first. Blood, sweat. And then the deeper echo: amber, lily of the valley, vanilla. Her scent. The scent of one who fights and survives.
Always one step beyond death, you.
And always, every time, you come back to me.
The villa’s door closed with a muffled thud, echoing in the atrium like a heart beating out of rhythm. Crystal chandeliers hung, relics of a vanished era, and the walls, inlaid with holographic panels, pulsed with azure light, as if the house itself held its breath.
Celine staggered inside. Her Hunter coat was stained with dried blood, her loose hair, black as ink, framing a pale, drawn face, almost broken. A chipped beauty. A statue on the verge of yielding to gravity.
Instinctively, she tried to cover the dark stain on her left sleeve with her hand, but the movement drew a low, barely audible groan from her.
To anyone else, it would have gone unnoticed. But not to Sylus.
His hearing—sharp, predatory—caught it like a distant, piercing alarm, familiar and urgent.
Sylus didn’t move immediately. He watched her.
Her shoes hit the floor with a dull thud, discarded like burdens. Celine massaged her left arm, a mechanical, almost absent gesture, but not subtle enough to escape him.
“How’d it go?” he asked finally, his voice low, sharp, laced with something he couldn’t fully mask: anxiety. Anger. Something akin to pain.
She didn’t answer right away. She breathed, looked away, as if unsure where to begin.
“Complicated,” she murmured then, her voice hoarse, worn by the night and the blood. “Undercover mission. Wanderers. It’s done… but it wasn’t easy.”
Sylus took a step forward. The tension in his movements was restrained, calculated, but his gaze was anything but. He studied her with painful precision, noting every tremor, every avoided gesture, every silence between her words.
“You’re not okay,” he said firmly, stepping closer, noticing how she avoided sudden movements. “You’re hurt,” he added, his tone brooking no argument.
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need her to tell him; he already knew.
Celine managed a half-smile, a shadow of broken sarcasm. “Just a scratch.”
Sylus didn’t buy it for a second. “You can’t lie to me, Celine,” he said, his voice a low growl, red eyes glinting. “You should know that. I know you too well.” His gaze was hard, unwavering. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Every time like this. Every damn time. Always the same story. Always the same damn stubbornness.
“Let me see,” he said finally, his voice flat, too controlled to hide the turmoil beneath. A command, more than a request. But underneath, an implosion. His lips curved slightly in a cold expression.
She hesitated. Took a step back, more instinct than reason. “I’m fine, really.”
Her name came out as a whisper. “Celine.”
The silence that followed was a taut rope between them. Sylus’s eyes pleaded and accused at once. Celine’s were tired, full. In the end, she relented.
Slowly, she shed her jacket, letting it slide off her shoulders.
The light shirt beneath was stained with blood at her left arm. It wasn’t just a scratch. It was deep, poorly tended.
Sylus inhaled softly, as if to contain a wave that had just crashed over him.
I couldn’t protect her. Not this time either.
He stiffened.
“It’s not just a scratch,” he observed, his tone low and unyielding, as he examined the dark stain. “This wound needs proper treatment.”
His gaze shifted from the stains to her arm, then to her fingers, still trying to downplay it, trembling slightly. Concern, though restrained, tightened his jaw.
“You have a strange idea of what’s negligible, Celine.”
She tried to deflect, but her voice was too faint. “It’s nothing… I can handle it.”
“Let me do my job,” Sylus retorted, his calm sharp, the composure of someone fighting to stay steady. His mind was already racing through protocols, treatments, possible toxin interactions.
But inside, he was breaking.
No point arguing, Celine.
“I can’t treat it here,” he said finally, his voice lower, but even more resolute. His eyes lingered on her rigid posture, the slight tilt of her torso. She was hiding something else.
There might be other wounds. You won’t tell me, I know. But I need to see for myself. “To the bathroom. Now.”
“I can patch myself up,” she protested, trying to stand taller with her usual defiance. That damn defiance he both loved and hated. It was armed beauty.
A spark in her eyes, fragile but stubborn.
“It wasn’t a request.”
His words cut like a blade, his tone deep and dark. His eyes darkened.
Inside, anger and fear pounded in his chest.
You never learn. You won’t stop until they kill you.
Celine hesitated, then turned toward the stairs. The carved wooden banister gleamed faintly under the walls’ blue light, but her step faltered. For a moment, her body gave way, buckling under pain she didn’t want to show.
She leaned against the wall.
Sylus was at her side in an instant, his hand steadying her elbow. His touch was firm, controlled, but his fingers trembled slightly.
Damn it, Celine, he thought, jaw clenched.
Why do I always have to pick up the pieces? Why can’t I stop it before it happens?
He stepped closer, reaching for her hand to guide her, but Celine pulled away, a sudden surge of pride. Too abrupt.
The motion drew a grimace of pain.
“I’m not made of glass… I can manage,” she whispered, but her voice quavered, and her unsteady step betrayed her.
A stifled groan escaped her lips, sharp and clear.
To Sylus, it was a blow.
He froze for a second, then his gaze turned to ice.
Without a word, he scooped her up in a swift, controlled motion.
Her body molded against his, lighter than he expected.
Her pheromones were a primal call, a whispered command to his instincts.
She’s calling me. Her scent is a primal demand.
“What the hell are you—?” she tried to protest, startled.
“Since you won’t cooperate,” he growled, jaw clenched, “let’s skip the theatrics.”
His voice was a taut thread, ready to snap. But the arms holding her were careful, measured, strong enough to support her without causing pain.
Sylus’s heart pounded as if he were in battle. Each step up the stairs was a thrust. A silent vow: I won’t leave you alone, not this time.
Celine flushed. Her hands clutched his shirt, trembling. She felt his heartbeat beneath the fabric, warm and steady, too human for such a disciplined body.
His shoulders are so broad. Muscles taut…
Her gaze fell on the vein pulsing along his forearm.
I want to trace it. Feel if it trembles under my fingers.
His scent enveloped her. Wood, spices, a wild note.
The fang on his necklace grazed her cheek.
I hate being weak in front of him, but I want him to care for me, not just tonight. I want him by my side, mine forever. I’m just a selfish bitch, wanting to bind him to me, but it’s stronger than I am.
The villa remained silent around them. Artificial lights cast thin shadows on polished wood, the atmosphere unreal, like a suspended dream.
Celine, why does it feel like you enjoy driving me mad?
When they entered the bedroom, Sylus flung open the door to the adjoining bathroom.
Celine’s bathroom seemed torn from a shattered dream: a white marble tub sunken into the floor, surrounded by thermoregulated lights that flickered on at their entry. Baroque mirrors reflected every gesture, every glance. Touch panels hummed at their passing, ready to adjust steam, water, intimacy.
Sylus set her down slowly on the tub’s edge. The marble was icy against her bloodstained jeans, the contrast sharpening the exhaustion etching her face.
The bathroom’s soft light traced her profile like a cracked statue: beautiful and fragile.
It was time to see everything. To tend every wound.
But the line between care and desire, between protection and need, was growing ever thinner.
Sylus knelt, his face inches from hers, scarlet eyes scanning every injury. “Show me,” he ordered, his voice calm but with an authoritative edge that left no room for defiance, his ears folding with concern.
His mouth tightened into a hard line, a cold expression masking the fire within. You can’t hide it from me. Not from me.
It wasn’t superficial, and he knew it. He wouldn’t let her brush off an injury, especially not one this severe. Better not try to play tough, he thought, assessing the Hunter’s condition. He knew her resilience, but there were limits she couldn’t surpass alone.
“I can handle it,” Celine insisted, stubbornness glinting in her eyes, but when she tried to lift her shirt, a groan escaped her, the pain betraying her. She stopped, breath ragged, and for a moment, her gaze turned vulnerable.
Sylus didn’t move, but inside, he thought: She can’t do this alone. Her struggle is too clear, her pain too raw.
Accepting her limits, Celine turned to him, her gaze softer, more exposed.
“Sylus… I can’t. Help me, please?” she murmured, hesitant, her trembling voice revealing more than she meant to. Sylus approached without hesitation, wordless.
“Stay still. I’ve got it,” he said, wetting a sterile cloth to loosen the dried blood. He grasped the hem of her shirt and tank top together, pulling them off with a firm yet gentle motion, revealing a black lace bra framing her full breasts, heaving with labored breaths, and a purple bruise blooming across her abdomen.
Sylus held his breath, a feline growl slipping out. The wound’s severity laid bare. A deep gash carved into Celine’s left shoulder, running down her bicep: torn skin, clotted blood, taut muscle, with a dark bruise spreading like a menacing shadow. Sylus held his breath again, his face a mask of control, but inside, rage simmered, a fire threatening to break free. Always the same story, Celine. You push too far, and I’m here picking up the pieces.
Yet amid this storm of emotions and racing thoughts, his eyes drifted to her feminine form, and despite seeing her suffering and “small,” he couldn’t help but think:
Her breasts… I want to tear off that lace, run my tongue over her, taste her, feel her pull me close, urge me to claim her. My ears lifted, trembling slightly, too delicate for this desire. I’m shameless, really. Imagining possessing her, picturing her naked, aroused for me. I should be ashamed. Reduced to base instincts while she suffers under my hands?
Celine flushed, her breathing uneven. I’m in pieces, but his hands… I want them to touch me with desire, to see me beyond my role as “mistress.”
The sapphire necklace, a gift from her father to her mother for her, gleamed on her décolleté. It’s all I have left of them.
Her skin was warm, too warm, and the contact sent a jolt down his spine. Desire mingled with sorrow, a knot tightening his stomach, suppressed by years of discipline. Her vulnerability kills me. I want to hold her, protect her, mark her as mine.
His thoughts betrayed his turmoil.
Celine flushed, her breathing uneven. He sees me so fragile, but his eyes… She noticed Sylus’s chest, a bead of sweat sliding down his neck, the fang necklace dangling like a talisman. She wanted to touch him, kiss him where the sweat glistened, a ritual to feel like his, to claim him fully, to have a deeper piece of him.
He hid his anger behind a cold stare, lips pressed tight, but his scarlet eyes flared with frustration.
“You never learn,” he said, his voice low, sharp, a restrained blow. Then, dripping with sarcasm, he added, “Just a scratch, right?” The words were a jab, a veiled accusation: You can’t even lie well.
The blood had clotted in places, but the scene before them spoke of hours of ignored suffering. Despite her efforts to stay composed, fatigue and pain cracked her face.
“It’s not that bad…” she murmured, her voice uncertain, lips straining for a timid, pained smile, broken by exhaustion, but Sylus’s sarcasm weighed like a boulder. Her eyes, blue flecked with yellow, dropped, a shadow of guilt crossing her face. He’s mocking me, and he’s right. I make him worry, and I can’t even justify it. Sylus’s biting tone, that “Just a scratch, right?”, burned, a reminder of her stubbornness that hurt not just her, but him too.
Sylus shot her a stern look, his eyes narrowing, red as embers. “Don’t talk,” he cut her off sharply, his voice a mix of authority and suppressed pain. I can’t stand your excuses. I can’t stand seeing you like this. “Now’s not the time for apologies,” he added, an order masking his fear of losing her.
Sylus stood, restless, and approached the cabinet under the mirror. His fingers brushed a touch panel, a hidden drawer hissing open. The medkit emerged, cold metal glinting under LEDs, every tool arranged with surgical precision. I have to be methodical.
His feline senses caught Celine’s racing pulse, her scent wrapping around him like a vise. He took the kit and returned to her, kneeling between her legs, his tail brushing the tub’s edge.
With a butler’s voice command, the jets activated, steam rising in thick spirals, making the air warm, humid, almost stifling. Water gurgled, its sound weaving with Celine’s breaths. He poured clear disinfectant and a few drops of lavender oil, the scent spreading through the heat, a methodical gesture to ease her pain.
Sylus dipped a sterile cloth in a bowl of disinfectant, liquid dripping onto the marble.
Her scent is everywhere… blood, pheromones, an intimate echo burning inside me. He pressed the cloth to the wound on her arm, the skin bleeding under his touch. Celine held her breath, a hiss escaping her. His hands moved with surgical precision, every gesture deliberate.
Each touch on her torn skin drew a stifled hiss from her, and Sylus counted them as invisible wounds in his chest.
You shouldn’t suffer like this. You shouldn’t risk your life. If she suffers, maybe she’ll learn.
What the fuck am I thinking? What kind of man hopes the woman he loves learns from pain?
They taught me to stay cold, to use my head, to calculate. But with her, I don’t want strategy or subterfuge.
I don’t want to sway her with fear or manipulate her with suffering. I just want to take her hand, keep her safe, no more compromises.
Damn it. Between us, I should be the one protecting her, not hoping she hurts enough to stop.
Instead, I’m here, patching up her mistakes… and mine. And every time I touch her, I remember why I keep doing it.
Because I can’t stay away. Because I love her, damn it. And because… she’s still home to me.
“I don’t do it on purpose,” she said, her tone low, stung by his earlier harshness.
Sylus sighed, placing gauze on the wound. “Whether it’s on purpose or not, the result’s the same,” he replied, his voice calm but heavy, each word a verdict. After a pause, softer: “And I’m always here, picking up the pieces.”
Celine stared at him, her eyes vulnerable, human. “I’m sorry for all this. I didn’t think it was that bad,” she murmured, her voice gentler, as if surrendering.
“Every time you risk your life like this, someone has to deal with the consequences,” Sylus said, his tone softening, though his tail twitched nervously. “Or do you think no one cares?” I care, Celine. Too much.
He began suturing, his hands steady, driven by surgical precision. Each stitch was an act of control, each motion an attempt to quell his anger. The tension in his muscles eased, his breathing deeper, as if stitching her skin also mended his own turmoil.
As the cloth grazed her, Celine shivered, her face flushed. Her skin is so soft… I want to trace its curves beyond the wound.
“It hurts,” Celine admitted, her voice breaking, no longer hiding her discomfort.
Sylus glanced at her briefly, his eyes glinting predatory. “I’ll be as gentle as I can. Breathe slowly,” he said, his voice free of its earlier edge. Each word came with a reassuring gesture: a hand adjusting the fabric, a light press to staunch the blood, a breath seeming to guide hers.
Her moans pierce me. Her scent… it calls to me, challenges me.
“I don’t want to be a burden, Sylus,” she said, her eyes glistening.
“You’re not a burden. You’re my duty. And more,” he confessed, his voice low, an admission that shook them both.
She swallowed hard, as if his words stole her breath. “And more.” God, what did that really mean? Why is he always so cryptic… why do I always have to decipher him?
Sylus’s tail stirred restlessly, brushing the tub’s edge, then coiling around his calf, an instinctive bid for restraint.
Sylus sat on the tub’s edge, beside Celine. His body close, too close. His open black shirt revealed a chiseled chest, prominent veins snaking down his arms, the fang swaying with each slight movement.
“You’re always so methodical,” Celine observed, breaking the silence. And distracting herself from the pain.
“It’s my job, after all. Someone has to do it, since you seem to have a… knack for getting into trouble,” he replied, a hint of irony in his tone.
Celine gave a faint smile. Her inner weight lifted, if only for a moment.
“You’ve always given me perspective on everything,” she said then, her voice calm.
“It’s not about understanding more or less. It’s about knowing when to watch and when to act,” Sylus countered, still suturing. “And I’ll remind you, you’ve asked for my advice more than once,” he added, with a half-smile.
“True,” Celine admitted, a touch of admiration in her voice.
“Why wouldn’t I help you?” he asked. His tone was dry, but warm. Each word felt like a promise.
His fingers paused on the needle for a moment. His scarlet eyes fixed on her, as if searching for a hidden meaning behind her words.
“I don’t know how you stay so calm,” Celine murmured, meeting his gaze.
“I’m not calm, Celine. But I can’t afford to break,” he replied, his voice hoarse. The steam amplified the intimacy, muffling everything else.
He finished suturing her arm. Each stitch precise, his hands steady despite the chaos undermining his unyielding composure.
He set the needle down. The sterile cloth still warm in his fingers. He looked up at her.
His gaze slid to Celine’s neck, where a stray lock of ebony hair fell messily, brushing her pale skin. Something caught his eye—a shadow? A glint?
With a slow, almost hypnotic motion, he brushed the hair aside.
Céline instinctively raised a hand to her neck. Her fingers sought his.
But Sylus was quicker. His hand caught hers, firm yet gentle, trapping her wrist.
“Easy. Wait,” he said, his voice low. A command laced with concern.
“Don’t touch it, Céline.”
His fingers tightened slightly. The warmth of his skin stirred something deep within her.
Céline flushed, her breath catching, her eyes searching his. His grip is so strong… I wish he’d hold me tight, caress me with that same devotion. I want to touch his face, feel his stubble, and one day see him smile at me just after waking, in our bed.
Below her left ear, inches away, Sylus saw a deep laceration, clotted blood mingling with the glint of hoop earrings and a lobe piercing. Another one. One of many.
“I didn’t notice…” Céline whispered, her voice fragile, a mix of pain and embarrassment.
Why is he looking at me like that? As if he wants… something more.
He looks at me like he wants to devour me…
Sylus noticed a frayed but sturdy black elastic on Céline’s wrist. “Tie your hair,” he ordered, his voice rough, betraying desire. Céline obeyed, lifting her locks with trembling hands, her neck exposed, vulnerable.
He leaned closer, his fingers grazing her temples, the scent of lily of the valley, vanilla, and amber hitting him like a punch. So intense… blood, pheromones, the echo of her cycle. I want to lick her neck, nibble where her skin is softest.
He gathered her hair with deliberate movements, twisting it into a messy, improvised chignon, the elastic securing it in a rugged, masculine knot.
His fingers brushed her neck. How can she be so fragile yet so strong?
Sylus’s tail stiffened, hovering mid-air, as if tempted to graze her thigh but holding back.
She let out a soft moan, his touch sending shivers down her spine.
His touch… so gentle, it’s almost heartbreaking. I wish he’d keep me here, away from the pain, the memories, even from being a Hunter. I wish he weren’t so damn perfect, composed, untouchable—not with me.
With her hair tied, Céline’s neck was a display of vulnerability. Sylus took a sterile cloth soaked in antiseptic and pressed it to the laceration. “This will hurt,” he warned, his amaranth eyes glinting predatorily.
He cleaned it, a vivid, thick red drop sliding down her back, along her shoulder, to her spine. I want to chase it with my tongue, press my teeth to her skin, feel her softness and warmth. He wiped the drop away, the motion slow, a caress. Céline moaned, an “Ah” breaking free, her breath held. Instinctively, her hand rested on Sylus’s thigh, gripping the taut muscles beneath his tight pants.
She closed her eyes, her face tense with pain, and Sylus felt a surge of desire overwhelm him. Her hand on me… so close, so warm. If only it would move higher… I want to hold her, make her mine, feel every breath against me. But I can’t stand seeing her like this anymore. It’s time to face this, one way or another.
“Breathe,” he said, his voice softer, a whisper brushing her neck.
Her scent… a call I can barely ignore, though her moans pierce me.
Sylus stitched. “I’ll get you a painkiller after, stay still,” he said, his voice a breath.
His fingers moved, each touch agonizing: the urge to press his lips to her neck, to “mark” her as his, clashed with his rational side. Céline trembled, her breathing uneven, her face flushed down to her décolleté.
Sylus’s ears twitched, catching her racing heartbeat.
He sutured the wound meticulously, her skin taut under his fingers. She moaned softly, trying to suppress the discomfort with little success.
Sylus clenched his teeth, his predatory eyes gleaming. But raw, visceral desire tormented him. I hope this scar stays, a reminder to stop risking her life. To make her more responsible. But, damn it, I wish she’d never have to bear one.
Meanwhile, she clutched her lap, fingers pressing against her wounded skin, an instinctive gesture betraying her pain.
He noticed, his eyes narrowing, a shadow of concern creasing his face. She’ll never tell me, always hiding the worst with that damn pride. I saw it, that dark bruise on her abdomen when I removed her shirt and tank top, and I know it’s worse than she admits.
“Does it hurt here?” he asked, gesturing to the bruise on her abdomen, his red eyes fixed on her.
“It’s just a bruise… no big deal,” Céline replied, downplaying it, but a wince escaped her, her face flushed. I don’t want to worry him. I’m not a kid, but every time it’s worse. Sometimes I act without caring about the consequences… like nothing matters.
Sylus softened his gaze, his voice warmer. “No need to play tough, Céline. I’m here for you, you know.”
Céline flinched slightly, her pained face tightening, then nodded weakly. “I know… Okay, it hurts a bit, yes,” she whispered, her voice cracking, admitting the pain and his presence.
Her fingers gripped the fabric, a tremble betraying her feeling like a burden… indebted.
“See? Being honest wasn’t so hard,” the butler said, a faint smile in his warm red eyes.
“You… don’t have to. You’ve already done so much… I don’t want…” she murmured, her voice fragile, eyes avoiding his.
I feel exposed under his gaze, his hands burning on my skin. Those eyes… I wish they’d see the need I don’t dare confess, the fear that makes me a coward. Damn, I’m such an idiot.
The sapphire necklace, a gift from her father to her mother when they learned of Céline, gleamed on her décolleté, a memory weighing on her heart.
“Stop risking your life, and I wouldn’t have to,” Sylus retorted, his tone sharp but laced with frustration. I know she doesn’t mean to, but she doesn’t realize how little she cares for herself, consumed by fear of losing everything. But if I lost her…
“You can’t do it alone, you’ll reopen the wound on your arm. Let me help.” Their eyes met, a silence heavy with tension. Céline nodded, a mute consent, her breath breaking.
Her smooth abdomen bore a purple bruise.
Her body… so soft. If only I could…
Images flooded him: his mouth on her skin, fingers exploring her slowly. He swallowed, jaw clenched, forcing himself to stay present. His instincts roared to take her, mark her as his, but his mind screamed to stop, anchoring him to harsh reality.
His tail stilled. His ears folded back, an unmistakable sign of the desire gripping him. If I were her mate, maybe she’d listen, stop making us suffer, stop living on the edge.
She looked up, lost in the sight of him: standing before her, his open shirt revealing sculpted chest muscles, a silver necklace dangling against his damp skin. Ashen hair clung to his forehead and neck from the bathroom’s warm steam, in rebellious, sensual strands. A bead of sweat slid down his neck’s curve, slow, transparent, followed by another.
The veins on his arms… I want to run my tongue along them, feel his strength on my skin. His hands… those fingers, commanding yet brutal. And those lips… so stern now, but I imagine how soft they’d be on me. His ears, tense, feral. If I touched them, would he tremble?
Her gaze drifted lower, unable to stop. His dark, tight pants outlined the evident shape of him, pressed against the fabric, not fully rigid but taut. His thighs, strong and muscular, seemed ready to hold her, pin her.
A warmth surged through her chest, a desire burning despite the pain, a need to feel him closer, real. But… was it real?
Maybe it was all in her head. Maybe his body reacted instinctively, without intent. Or maybe it wasn’t reacting at all, and she was imagining everything. The pain, the fear of losing him, the love slipping away too long… they were clouding her senses.
What if it’s not desire, but just pity? Duty?
She bit her lip. She wanted to believe, even for a moment. She wanted to think he was fighting not to give in, not to touch her as he might want.
His scent—burnt wood, spices, something wild, animalistic—overwhelmed her. It made her feel small, vulnerable, but terribly alive.
Sylus knelt, grabbing a warm, damp cloth.
His voice, hoarse, caressed her ears like a physical touch.
“Can I?”
Céline nodded, slightly embarrassed, but part of her craved that contact.
He placed it on her chest, grazing the edge of her bra with precision masking his inner turmoil.
The cloth slid over the bruise, tracing slow circles on her stomach, each touch eliciting a shiver from Céline.
She held back a whimper, torn between discomfort and desire, her body tense, her chest rising and falling.
His hands, large, strong… yet so gentle.
Sylus’s tail twitched, brushing her thigh like a warm shadow. Not deliberate, but not entirely unintentional. A faint tremor ran through her, as if holding something back. Céline watched it, mesmerized by that part of him she’d never dared touch.
She’d never seen him touch it, nor noticed anyone else do so. It was like a secret, forbidden zone, too intimate even for a lingering glance.
Yet… it was beautiful. So alive. Full of tension. If only she could brush it… just with a finger, feel the fur’s texture, the warmth beneath.
Her heart pounded. Was she getting aroused? Or was she just wanting him so badly she saw things that weren’t there?
Sylus shook his head. “It’s not just a bruise. It’s deep, Céline.” And every time I see you like this, I wonder how much longer you can hold on, he thought, a dull ache in his chest.
His fingers traced the bruise’s edge, sliding toward the hem of her jeans, where it vanished beneath the fabric.
I just want to press my lips to that patch of skin, right under her bra… warm it, soothe it with my mouth.
Céline flushed, her hands gripping the tub’s edge.
I feel naked under his eyes. But I don’t mind. I want him everywhere.
A slight shift in his fingers’ pressure, an involuntary wince from Céline, made him freeze.
Too close to what I can’t let myself want.
“For this… ice will do,” he said finally. His voice was steady, but inside, turmoil threatened.
I just want to keep tracing her. Caress her skin to its last curve. For her to ask me to.
His gaze returned to a mark on her hip, between her groin and side, unsatisfied, as if seeking an answer there.
He’d noticed it before, thought it was blood from the arm wound, but now… it seemed different. Darker. Deeper.
“What’s that?” Sylus asked, nodding toward it. His voice was rough, sharp. But beneath, something far more fragile trembled.
“No idea…” Céline whispered, then gave a tired half-smile. “Honestly, everything hurts. I don’t think I can tell them apart anymore…”
Sylus stiffened.
She can’t even distinguish her pain anymore. Next time… will she come back to me? On her feet? Or will it be too late?
Their eyes met, a silence heavy with all they couldn’t say.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Sylus said finally. His voice cracked slightly, each word a boulder.
He ran a hand over his face, fingers grazing his jaw, as if to erase exhaustion or rub away the pain.
Always the same scenes. But each time worse. More suffering. More fragile. More silences to fill. And me, more powerless.
Don’t you care about living anymore? Don’t I mean anything to you? I can’t lose you.
Céline looked down. She shrugged faintly, a gesture meant to seem indifferent but brimming with surrender.
“Maybe I have nothing left to lose,” she murmured.
She said it softly, without anger. And that cut him deeper.
She didn’t dare look at him. She couldn’t bear that gaze. Not if he realized how much he truly meant to her.
If he sensed he was the only one left. The only one she still feared for.
Sylus’s jaw tightened, a dark flash crossing his gaze.
He hesitated. Then, without looking away: “Take off your jeans.”
Céline froze.
“You… don’t have to…” she murmured, startled by the command, but also by herself. Because part of her wanted him to take care of her.
And that part terrified her most.
“I’ll say it again: if you came home whole, you wouldn’t have to deal with me… or any of this,” he shot back, harsher than intended. I shouldn’t talk to her like this. I should reassure her, make her see reason. I should just support her.
His fingers moved with near-reverent slowness, brushing the button of her jeans. The contact with her bare stomach was warm, sharp, surprising.
He usually wore gloves. Not now. His rough skin against hers burned with contrast. The heat radiated from the touch, and Céline felt it deeper, lower.
“Trust me, Céline. Let me help… let me do this at least,” he whispered. His voice trembled, caught between duty and something deeper, more human.
He looked at her like she was all he wanted to protect, but also all he desired.
She nodded again. A small gesture. Silent consent, heavy with trust and surrender.
Sylus’s hands rested on the hem of her jeans. His warm, strong fingers against her cold, silky hips. The motion was measured, precise, but beneath it, something fierce and untamed stirred.
The sound of the zipper broke the silence like a stifled moan.
He slid the jeans off slowly, the fabric gliding down her body, revealing black lace culottes. The bruise stretched from her hip to the edge of the lingerie, grazing the start of her pubis. The lace covered what it needed to. But not enough to douse the fire.
I’m not a kid. Calm down. But damn, no other woman has ever done this to me. Her skin… I want to kiss it all. Push past that lace.
His tail stirred, his ears folded back, an instinctive sign of turmoil he could no longer contain.
Céline flinched. Her face burned.
Sylus’s scorching skin hit her like a sensual slap. It was the first time she truly felt him on her. His bare hands, calloused, strong… yet gentle.
It wasn’t just a touch: it was him. Him, shedding his armor. Him, becoming flesh. Presence. Breath. Him, stripped of his own silence.
Let them slide down. Let them make me forget everything…
Sylus swallowed hard. His breath broke.
Then, in a low voice, as if each word cost too much: “You’ll have to bear it a little longer… I’ll be quick. And as gentle as I can, I swear.”
A pause. His voice dropped, rough, almost a whisper:
“You make this so damn hard, Céline… But you’re not alone. You never were. Remember that.” Not a promise, not a caress. A plea.
A desperate attempt to control everything exploding inside him.
The words came through gritted teeth, a thread of a voice trying to hold back something too deep, too urgent.
Damn it. How do we always end up here? We’ve already lost from the start. Yet I still want her.
She couldn’t speak. Words died in her throat, choked by shame.
She felt foolish. Childish. A little girl who’d fooled herself into thinking she was stronger than she was.
And maybe that’s how he saw her now.
I’m sorry, Sylus… but I can’t even say that. Not now. She didn’t move. The tremor in her hands betrayed her emotion.
Seeing her lost, confused, he offered his hand. Strong, sure.
She took it. And he guided her, firmly, to settle better on the tub’s edge.
Her scent hit him full force.
It wasn’t just a boundary.
It was an instinct call.
Sylus knelt between her legs. Céline, open, vulnerable, exposed. And him, there. A breath away from everything he wanted. And couldn’t have.
He examined the cut on her right thigh, still bleeding, dark red staining her pale skin.
His hands… I want them to touch me beyond. To take me away from all this pain. I’m losing it. Maybe it’s just the pain. Or him. Or both, Céline thought, a knot of bitterness tightening her throat.
The dutiful butler gathered the supplies to tend to her, his hands steady despite the inner turmoil.
“If it hurts, hold onto me.”
His voice was hoarse, a command cloaked in care, brimming with suppressed desire.
“Okay,” Céline murmured, her breath short.
He placed one hand on the outside of her thigh, the other on the inside, his fingers brushing her warm, trembling skin.
So close… I want to slide higher, touch her where her scent is strongest.
The cycle began again. Each stitch, an act of pure self-control. The cloth glided with mechanical precision, soaking up the reddish liquid.
The dim light outlined his chiseled chest, the necklace swaying gently, his ashen hair plastered by steam. His ears folded, his tail restless. His gaze steady, focused.
Céline draped her right arm around his neck, gripping his shoulders. Her body leaned toward him.
His shoulders… like stone.
How many times had those same shoulders been her anchor when the world seemed to crumble?
He was always there. Steady. Impeccable. A silent, welcoming shadow that made her feel loved without words.
He cared for her, for the family’s affairs, with unwavering dedication, never a complaint.
Yet she knew. Sometimes, in his eyes—those beautiful crimson eyes, deep as sunset-stained glass—a fleeting shadow passed. Pain? Regret?
It never lasted longer than a breath.
Because Sylus was trained to mask everything. To be perfect. An automaton taught never to yield.
But she… she loved every crack. Every fracture.
She loved the Sylus who laughed softly, who gifted her those small smiles that seemed stolen from the world.
The one who caught her off guard, whom she could make falter with a too-honest quip.
That human Sylus. Real. Pure. Beautiful. The one she felt equal to.
And, with fierce selfishness, Céline believed she was the only one who could draw him out.
She didn’t love the perfect butler.
She loved that boy, so different from her, yet with whom she’d felt an immediate bond, as if sent by kind fate, whom she first saw in the villa’s park, the boy who grew up with her.
The one who helped her study, who scolded her when she gave in to impulsiveness.
The one who held her hand at her grandmother’s funeral.
Who welcomed her, every time she returned to that too-large, too-empty house, with kind words that made memories less bitter.
More bearable.
And only now, as she felt him lean toward her, did she realize how much his body had changed.
He was no longer a boy. He was a man. Strong. Loyal. Protective. Gentle.
And he had always guided her, even when she lost her way.
She felt foolish for only realizing it now.
Foolish… and happy.
Because he was there. Not far. Maybe not so unattainable.
Hers. Maybe.
And perhaps because she had already lost everything, she wanted to cling to that last, fragile hope.
Nurture it. For him. For them.
And that thought turned something inside her upside down.
I want to touch his tail, pull him to me, feel his weight. Tell him how much he means to me… maybe the most important person, for so many years.
Sylus cleaned the wound. The warm cloth caressed her skin, each touch a torment.
I want to keep her tied to me.
Damn it.
But that wasn’t the point. It had never been just that. I want her to stop. To stop chasing death like it’s her fate. To abandon these suicidal missions.
To choose herself. To learn to love herself—even if it’s never with me.
His tail twitched restlessly, like a feline’s, irritated.
Its nervous movements spoke for him, betraying what his hands tried to hide.
His caracal ears taut.
A feline growl escaped him. His breathing deepened. His eyes gleamed with restrained hunger.
He continued tending to her. His movements were precise, surgical. But Céline’s chest was inches from his face, her breath grazing his skin.
The thick steam enveloped them. The sound of water was a slow pulse.
Céline moaned. She clung to his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders, covered only by a shirt stretched over warm muscles.
She felt his breath, calm and deep. He was there, a heartbeat from her heart.
His hands… so close to a place no one had touched in so long.
So steady. So present. How does he stay so composed? I want him, now. To feel his body against mine. To know he’s real. That he’s mine.
The thought shook her. Inappropriate. Ill-timed. But real.
She clung to him harder. Her face tightened, from pain… and something deeper.
She curled into herself, her breath breaking. Pain shot through her like a jolt.
Sylus gritted his teeth. He felt everything. Too much.
She’s too close. Too warm.
“Easy… you’re almost there. Don’t move now…” he ordered, his voice hoarse, a warm whisper that caressed her more than his hands. Each syllable was a taut thread between control and damnation.
But his face was inches from her chest, and her scent—lily of the valley, amber, vanilla… and that more intimate aroma, alive with desire—clouded his thoughts.
He could sense her arousal, her skin pulsing under his fingers, her broken breath brushing his ear.
A drop of sweat slid from his temple, landing right there, where her skin stretched at the base of her pubis, within the folds of her scent.
When he finished, he set the thread aside and, almost without thinking, caressed her newly stitched thigh. His fingers light, hesitant, but full of silent care. Almost a mute apology for every pain inflicted.
Céline was still panting, her breath short, her chest rising and falling inches from his face. Her hands gripped his shirt and the tub’s edge.
Sylus looked up. His face was so close to hers.
Their eyes met. The silence crackled with electricity.
And it was like a short circuit.
He was kneeling between her legs, she sat on the tub’s edge, her thighs slightly parted, her body still tense, trembling from pain… and something else.
His face was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips.
Their breaths intertwined. Time stopped.
His amaranth eyes burned into hers. Her chest nearly brushed his chin. Her body’s heat was an animalistic call.
She wants me, maybe as much as I want her. I should resist…
His tail grazed the inside of Céline’s thigh. A bold, guilty contact that made them both flinch.
She stifled a moan, trying to hold back, her eyelids half-closed. Kiss me… Her mind a whirlwind, her body taut like a string about to snap. Don’t wait. If you don’t… I will…
Céline’s lips parted slightly, as if already waiting for the kiss that never came.
Time seemed to collapse on that thin edge: between what could be and what they dared not allow.
Sylus leaned closer. His nose against hers, a near-kiss that set the air ablaze. A suspended moment.
A fraction of a second where everything else vanished.
Sylus was overwhelmed by her scent: intense, intoxicating, aroused.
The hand on her thigh tightened, possessive, hungry. His fingers dug into her flesh, an impulsive gesture that drew a moan from Céline.
Her scent is overwhelming… she's aroused, and it's driving me insane.
His gaze burned, devouring every inch of her face.
Céline didn’t move, didn’t speak. But her eyes—liquid, tense, full of vulnerability and craving—screamed one thing: Let go. Make me yours.
And Sylus…
Sylus leaned closer still.
Céline bit her lip, her eyes half-closed and brimming with desire, her hand trembling on his shoulder. I want him. So much it makes me shake. But do I deserve him? I only bring him pain. Complications. Yet I can’t help but feel, at least partly, pleased to see him feel something real for me. And I… I’ve never felt this for anyone else. I tried, I forced myself, but love isn’t chosen…
But suddenly she clenched her teeth, her lashes trembling, then whispered with a broken voice:
“It… hurts… ahh.”
That sound was like a slap. Sylus snapped back, as if waking from a too-vivid dream. A breath. A missed heartbeat.
And then the world started turning again.
Sylus pulled back sharply. His tail rigid. His ears upright, tense. Alert. He jolted awake, as if only then realizing how much he could hurt her.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, avoiding her eyes.
I’m losing control.
He inhaled sharply, clenching his jaw.
“Stay here. I’ll get the ice. And a painkiller.”
Céline nodded. Her face flushed. Her breath trembling.
Don’t leave me alone. Don’t go back to being distant.
The water gurgled, the steam beckoning, ready to embrace her.
Notes:
Thank you for reading A Breath from the Edge! Writing about Celine and Sylus has been an intense emotional journey, and I’m so happy to share it with you. I hope their tension—and that almost-moment—left an impression! Let me know your thoughts: the passion, the feline vibe, or where you think these two are headed. Comments and kudos are deeply appreciated. I edited the text at night, so apologies if anything slipped through. As a new author, I’m surprised and grateful for your support. I hope the story keeps touching you!
Thank you so much—you’re amazing!
Chapter 6: Whispers in the Steam – Part 1
Summary:
Celine and Sylus, bare in different ways, brush against steam and silences. A dance of glances and gestures igniting hidden desires. What won’t they say?
Notes:
Hello dear readers! Welcome to "Whispers in the Steam- Part 1".
A steamy bath where Celine and Sylus reveal themselves without touching: this is the first part of a tension that will ignite in the next chapter. Glances hiding secrets, gestures promising more. Will you dive in?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the still silence of the room, her eyes drifted to the tub. The thought of sinking into warm water tempted her—not just to ease the pain, but to escape, if only for a moment, the weight of the world keeping them apart. Maybe a little distance from him would quell the fire consuming her from within.
But maybe now wasn’t the time to run.
She moved slowly, each gesture measured to avoid the worst of the pain. She rose from the tub’s edge with a broken groan, her lips trembling. Dried blood, bruises, lacerations: her skin was a battlefield. Yet, in that fragility, there was a strange strength. She glanced at the mirror—her face marked by pain… and a raw, fierce desire. She wanted to be loved. Touched. Worshipped by him.
With a slow, almost absent gesture, she let her bra fall. The black lace, stained with crusted blood along the strap, crumpled to the floor beside her pants. Her panties followed, carefully peeled away. Every small movement sparked a memory in her body: the stitches on her arm pulled, her thigh throbbed, her hip ached with dull pangs, as if a knot inside her had tightened too much.
She stepped over the rim. The water embraced her with a dense, almost maternal warmth. Steam enveloped her face like a veil. She flinched, holding her breath, then lowered herself slowly, sinking to her chest. The water lapped at her wounds with gentle care, like fingers too timid to press—yet the contact burned. A sharp, living pain that made her clench her teeth to stifle a moan.
She stayed there, motionless. Her head tilted back against the marble, neck exposed, breath slow. One leg bent, the other stretched. The water grazed her breasts, barely veiling them. She didn’t care. Or maybe she did. She thought of Sylus. His hands. His deep, steady eyes. His rough voice calling her name.
Those hands were strong. Calloused. Yet they’d cradled her in his arms with a heartrending tenderness she hadn’t expected from someone like him. Her legs had trembled. Blood dripped slowly from the cut. And he… kneeling before her, his face level with her thighs, tending to her with an almost reverent care. His eyes never left her, not for a second.
No rush. No embarrassment. Just focus. Just him—there, washing away the blood with hands that were saving every piece of her.
In that moment, she’d understood: it wasn’t just strength. It was devotion. Restrained desire. Respect that burned beneath the skin, fiercer than any glance or word.
The door opened.
Sylus.
**************************
He stepped into the bathroom quickly, his stride purposeful, his breath slightly shorter than usual. He expected to find her there, perched on the tub’s edge as before, waiting with trembling legs and downcast eyes. Still cloaked in that vulnerability that had cracked something inside him.
But he stopped dead.
Celine was submerged in the water, up to her chest. Her neck bared, head tilted back, eyes closed as if breathing a dream. The warm light glinted off her damp skin, tracing the droplets that slid from her shoulders, vanishing into the water.
The steam hit him instantly, thick and scalding. It smothered to his already sweat-slick skin, plastering his shirt to his chest, his back, his shoulder blades. A bead of sweat trailed down his neck, pooling in the hollow between his collarbones, as if marking him.
But it wasn’t the heat.
It was her body. He swallowed, the sound low and primal, almost involuntary, as he watched her.
His body—felt her. Something hung in the air, something he couldn’t put into words. A subtle but unmistakable shift. A call. His feline instincts reacted before his mind could catch up: his ears twitched faintly backward, as if listening. His tail stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. His heart, though, slowed.
It wasn’t just desire. Not only that. It was peace. Calm. Home.
Her pheromones—different now, deeper, warmer—stirred a profound, animalistic sense of quiet in him. They drew him in, yes. Drew him to stand close, silent. To touch her only to say, “I’m here.” To wrap her in his body and promise she was safe, that he’d never leave. A primal part of him, older, truer, wanted only to crouch beside her and stay. To feel her breathe.
He held a bag of ice in his right hand. A box of painkillers in his left. Yet, for a long moment, he couldn’t take a single step. He watched her. Not as a man gazes at a naked woman. But as someone who suddenly realizes they’re standing before something too precious to touch without reverence.
Her exposed neck. The droplets tracing her collarbone. Her chest rising gently, rippling the water. Her pale skin, wet, fragile, and alive.
Each wound an invitation. Each bruise, a map. He closed the door behind him without thinking. The steam brushed his face, mingling with his breath. The dim light refracted in the bathroom like beneath the surface of a warm, slow lake. His eyes, etched with exhaustion and something he wasn’t ready to name, settled on her.
Celine was there. Beneath the shimmering surface, her skin glowed. Her breasts hinted, concealed, revealed just enough. She wasn’t naked.
She was bare of defenses. And in that calm—that absurd, inexplicable calm after all she’d endured—there was something that struck him harder than a scream. Then her blue eyes. Those eyes that lifted to him with disarming slowness.
They didn’t stare. They welcomed. Not for how he appeared: tall, rigid, restrained. She saw inside him. Saw the struggle churning beneath his skin. The hunger, the pain, the sorrow, but also the tenderness that burned. And she recognized it. As one recognizes something already theirs.
As if she knew, no matter how it played out, he’d always come back. A little selfish, perhaps, but honest.
There was a bond between them, something unbreakable.
Selfish, my mistress. She toys with keeping me without holding tight… A bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he thought. God, how she kills me. How she thrills me.
Sylus felt it under his skin, like a primal knot—and sometimes, in his darkest moments, he craved it. Craved belonging to her. Like a beast accepting a leash.
An invisible collar, tightened by fragile hands. The thought aroused him in a way that sickened him. But it was the truth. He’d rather be used than ignored.
Possessed, rather than pitied. There was something tragically comic in that: how far would he bend if she truly wanted him?
How much would he take? That unspeakable part of him would choose pain over absence. Because in pain, at least, she wanted him.
A butler to the core, huh? Ready to serve her my heart, like a loyal pet, on a silver platter. Bravo, Sylus, you’ve outdone yourself. The perfect punchline.
Even so. And perhaps that was what tormented him most of all: knowing that, even if she cast him out, he’d come back anyway. Crawling.
And staying. His jaw rigid, clenched with tension. His ears tilted slightly backward. His tail still taut, but ready to unravel.
“I got the ice… and the painkillers.”
Sylus’s voice was hoarse, restrained. A warm thread of sound carved from his chest.
“I’ll leave them here. Don’t soak too long, for the wounds.”
He moved to turn away. But when Celine lifted her gaze to him, her voice cracked, a thread of vulnerability trembling in her pupils, it was like a blow to the chest.
“Sylus,” she whispered, her voice fainter than usual.
“Don’t go.” Her words were an invitation, but not merely physical. They were a plea for presence. For tenderness.
And Sylus was lost. He stopped.
“Can you help me wash my hair?” Her voice was low but clear. No hesitation. Just need. “I can’t manage. My arm…”
He hesitated. Then turned back. A nod. No words. It’s my duty. That’s all. Just an act of care.
He approached, set the items on the sink, and sat beside her on the tub’s edge. He took the thermal nanoinfuser next to the vial of bioactive oils, filled it with warm water, and poured it gently over her hair. A faintly uncertain gesture. His thighs brushed her shoulder blades ever so slightly, the steam’s heat clinging to him, soaking his clothes.
From there, he saw the curved line of her breast, its bare outline just breaking the water’s surface, wet and taut, her skin gleaming. He swallowed hard, a hollow gulp. His lower abdomen tightened, impatient, almost betraying him. He tried to ignore it.
Shampoo slid into his palm. A little was enough. His hands sank into her black hair, like plunging into a field of damp silk. He began to massage, slow and precise. Thumbs near her nape, forefingers tracing circles, nails grazing her scalp just barely.
It wasn’t just desire he felt. It was hunger. But not a crude or bestial hunger: it was the hunger for a normalcy always denied him.
He wanted to touch her every evening, slip her shirt off slowly, kiss her shoulders before she fell asleep.
He wanted this bath to be part of a routine: her undressing, him watching, drawing near, washing her with care. Then lying together, bare, hiding nothing. He wanted—damn it, he wanted it now—a place where he didn’t have to fight to earn another’s touch. A place where it was enough to exist. To be alive.
Now, though, every gesture had to be measured. Contained. But his eyes devoured her.
The way the water traced the line of her breast. The lower lip she bit just slightly, as if to hold back a thought.
And her thighs… the way one stayed bent, the other stretched cautiously… the space between them that the steam couldn’t fully conceal.
Damn it.
He couldn’t think like this, but it was impossible at this point.
Because there was nothing dirty in wanting her. He didn’t just want to possess her. He wanted to care for her in every way.
He wanted to undress her, yes… but to clothe her in his touches, one by one.
She closed her eyes. Her breathing deepened. A nearly stifled moan slipped from her lips, and he felt a bite beneath his sternum.
If they were a couple, this would be normal. He’d touch her every evening, he thought, slip her shirt off slowly, kiss her shoulders. Find her in his bed, her body over his, her hands caressing him, a light bite on his neck. Skin against skin, to feel her, entwined with him. It was simply a longing for normalcy.
Washing. Touching. Sleeping.
Stroking her like this. Being bare together. Even bickering in their underwear in the kitchen in the morning, sunlight streaming through the window, only to make up after.
But not like this. This was a boundary. A minefield. And he was there, teetering on the edge.
Celine opened her eyes, gazing at him from beneath her lashes. Sylus’s face was still, but his eyes weren’t. His eyes spoke things he’d never admit aloud.
She watched him silently. As he tended to her, he tried to focus on the motions. But his fingers moved with an unnatural slowness, as if each strand of hair were sacred.
His hands—those hands—were large and strong, yet with fingers so long and elegant, they touched her as if she were made of crystal.
He smiled faintly, then grew serious. His gaze slid to her neck, where a purplish bruise pulsed beneath her pale skin. He traced its outline with utmost gentleness, fingertips brushing it as if he could erase it. He felt Celine shiver beneath him.
Her breathing deepened. Her breast rose almost imperceptibly in the water.
“Does it still hurt here?”
«Just a little. But… I like it when you touch me like this.»
Her lips twisted into a faint grimace, and yet she tilted her neck slightly into his hand — as if seeking it anyway.
Sylus held his breath for a moment.
Her words shattered something in him — something tight, controlled, coiled too long. An impulse surged through his body like a jolt, sharp and undeniable.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from taking a step too far. He wished that tub could become a bed. That his touches were more intimate, conspiratorial.
He longed to stroke her shoulders, kiss her back. To plunge into that water with her, feel her beneath him, perfectly nestled in his arms.
Then slide his palm over her stomach, tracing its curve toward her hipbone, until he felt her tremble, truly. There was nothing chaste in what he felt. But nothing sordid either.
He desired her. All of her. But with respect, with hunger and tenderness intertwined. He wanted to make her feel chosen.
Loved. Protected. And fiercely alive.
His touch remained restrained, but his thoughts ran free. His hand moved slowly to her nape, then up along the base of her skull, fingers fanning out across her wet skin. He leaned slightly, his warm breath grazing her ear.
Celine closed her eyes under his fingers, her head tilting faintly back. The lukewarm water flowed down her neck, over her shoulders, between her submerged breasts.
Sylus said nothing, but his touch spoke for him: precise, controlled… yet vibrant. Each motion seemed etched into the silence.
As he rinsed the foam from her hair, his eyes drifted again, lingering where the water ended and her breast began.
A droplet, fragile and slow. So small, yet capable of igniting every sense. It slid, tracing the curve of her breast, until it vanished beneath the surface. His vivid imagination didn’t help. He pictured her skin tightening at its passage, the exact spot where that warm, stubborn liquid would end, caressing her before merging with the water.
And in that spot, he thought, his lips could have gone.
He closed his eyes for a second. If she were his, truly his…
He would have taken her there, unhurried. He would have grazed her skin until every pain was erased. He would have kissed her everywhere, with fierce tenderness. He would have made love to her in that tub, in a bed, in any place where a body could become a refuge.
He opened his eyes. A sad smirk twisted his lips, bitter as a memory that couldn’t be lived. The desire remained, fierce and warm, but there was no urgency or shame. Only a contained wait.
A deep breath.
“Feeling better?” Sylus asked, his voice rough.
She nodded slowly, eyes still closed.
No more words were needed. The silence spoke for them.
Celine, if she were better at lying, might have said she’d never wondered what was beneath that shirt. But now she was tired.
Tired of pretending that this man—so composed, intelligent, charismatic, almost regal—didn’t strike her to her core. She was an adult. And perhaps, for the first time, she had to admit it to herself. Now, yes.
And she felt foolish for taking so long. Maybe because she didn’t want to accept it. And now that she did, she felt curious, confused. But also free.
The steam slid across her face like a kiss. She felt his hands sink into her hair, her heart pounding in her chest.
Not from fear. Not from pain. But from that part of herself that refused to stop wanting him. Even if she didn’t yet know, or didn’t want to acknowledge, what she truly desired. She watched him from beneath her lashes, a small smile curving her lips.
The tension was still there—subtle, subterranean, like a string ready to hum at the slightest touch. So, trying to lighten the thick air enveloping them, she let a quip slip out.
Her voice turned low, mischievous:
“You know, Sylus… with that touch of yours, you could make a fortune.”
Her voice dropped without her meaning to, a mischievous, warm tone.
“I bet women would line up to get massaged… everywhere. And you’d be damn good at it.”
Sylus raised an eyebrow slightly, as if weighing whether to take the bait. A half-smile, controlled, curved his lips. But Celine wasn’t looking for an answer. She didn’t need one.
She closed her eyes. And imagined him.
Sylus. Naked.
**************************
Standing in a room thick with steam. His skin gleaming with hot oil. Every muscle defined by soft light. He breathed slowly. Deliberately. But he didn’t seem like a man. A living statue. Carved solely to be gazed upon. His gray hair, sweat-damp, fell messily over his forehead. Some strands clung to his temple.
His caracal ears, upright, taut, quivering faintly. Ready to catch every sound. Every breath. Wild. Damn sensual. And there was a body beneath him. No. Not another woman.
Fuck. At least in my imagination, it has to be me… it’s the least I deserve.
The thought of someone else receiving that touch. Those hands. Those eyes. Me.
Only me. I’m the one beneath him. I feel his weight over my body. The oil sliding between skin and skin.
His hands aren’t seeking knots. They’re not seeking pain.
They’re seeking me. Reading me. Melting me. Possessing me. His chest is broad, full. His breath just quickening. His abs taut, alive beneath the skin. And then that line.
The Adonis line. Deep, chiseled like an obsession.
It dips toward his groin, deliberate. As if saying: look.
Veins rise above his pubes, thin, tense. They pulse. A path. A promise. A fucking curse. And the pubic hair. Silver, slightly darker, like his hair. Neat, but there. Real. Growing upward, tracing that line.
I’ve never seen him naked. But fuck, I imagine it every time I close my eyes. I want him over me. Inside me.
Not for pleasure. To mark me. To lose control with me. To have no choice but to surrender to my body.
**************************
His cock is hard. Beaded with oil. Alive. Pulsing, aware. As if it knows everything. As if it’s mocking me. It’s not just sex. It’s dominance. Pure, ruthless power.
I want him to break me. I want to feel what it means to be his for real.
I feel him press against me. Slowly. Deliberately. Every movement an order. Every breath a command. He enters me as if he’s teaching me something.
As if he’s erasing everything I was before. Rebuild me, Sylus. Make me yours. Only yours. Every drop of oil on my skin burns.
His hands don’t graze: they dig. They say everything his mouth doesn’t dare. Touch me. Like you can’t help it. Like I’m the only one you’ll ever want to touch for the rest of your life. His scarlet eyes pin me down. In them, I see only myself. No one else. Never anyone else.
I want all of him. Every fiber, every shudder. His silence, his thoughts, his fucking heart if need be.
His tail slides over my thigh. Warm. Wet. Tempting. It moves like a tongue. A caress that asks permission. But then takes everything. Bind me. Hold me. Force me to feel how much you want me. Make me forget everything else.
I want him to hold me tight. To whisper in my ear. I want him to say:
“You’re mine.”
To convince me. To make me believe it. To leave no room for doubt.
I want to be indispensable. The only one.
And in my fantasy, his voice turns to molten honey, slipping through my thoughts:
“Relax, Celine… let me take care of you…”
But it’s not sweetness. It’s a command. It’s need.
It’s a pact. Silent. Searing.
And I want it. I want all of it. I want it now. For his pleasure to be inseparable from mine.
**************************
A warm, muffled laugh escaped Sylus’s lips.
Her eyes snapped open, her skin ablaze in response. The hot water slid over her, but not enough to quell the burn between her thighs. She clenched them without thinking.
If he knew what I’m thinking. If he knew what I’d do to him, what I want him to do to me. Shit… it makes my stomach churn.
Her heart pounded against her ribs. Her breath shorter, heavier.
“Masseur?” he repeated, smirking faintly. An ironic grimace, laced with control.
“Maybe. But the only ‘massage’ I know is patching you up after you nearly get yourself killed. I doubt your imaginary clients would be as thrilled as you.”
Her cheeks flushed with a faint blush. But the smile lingered.
The fantasy still burned beneath her skin.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure… you’ve got a talent that doesn’t go unnoticed.”
Her voice dropped lower, a whisper.
“And you know it as well as I do.”
Sylus let out a sound akin to a laugh, but tighter. A quick snap of lips, controlled. His gaze, though, clouded for a moment, as if he had to shake off a sudden thought.
His hands, meanwhile, moved more slowly through her wet hair.
“Talent, you say?”
A brief silence. Then, with an almost distracted but measured tone:
“All I know is, somehow, I manage not to lose my patience with a hunter who breaks herself every other day. And believe me, that’s a full-time job.”
Celine laughed. A short, genuine sound. But the tension hadn’t fully dissolved.
The fantasy…
Celine laughed, short, genuine. But the tension didn’t fully dissolved.
The fantasy was still there, alive and pulsing. Then a thought hit her like a punch:
*What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m here, thinking of him like he’s mine. Like I could take him and hold him without asking anything. I want everything from him. Everything. Just for me.
Yet, just imagining him with another—with someone who feels his weight, his rough voice in her ear, his hands on her skin—something tightens in my chest, claws, burns.
It’s rage. Silent, slow, venomous. A mute scream I can’t stop.
He’s not mine. I have no right. I’ve never told him anything. Yet, the idea that he could give another what he’s given me, that subtle presence, those small, imperceptible gestures… it devours me.
What a fool I am. But I’ve never felt so alive.
I can’t pretend indifference anymore. I want him with a part of myself I don’t understand, a part that refuses to ever share him.
That fears the future and wonders: What if one day I saw him with another? If he loved another?
It would break me. He’s practically everything. Every glance, every touch, every word whispered just for me.
Those details are relics in my chest. And if he offered them to another?
I should scream. Swallow the pain. Because I have no right to demand anything, but jealousy, frustration, are consuming me, bringing me to my knees before an idea I know is beyond my reach. I love him. Truly. With everything I am. But I don’t deserve him. So maybe this would be my most cynical, asshole excuse to keep him close: beings like him, so rare, with those unique, animal traits, are sold, bought, used as exotic trophies.
I couldn’t let him go. Not as a mere object. I’d keep him tethered to me.
And I hate myself for it.*
Sylus grew serious, with the focus of someone trying not to feel what his body was screaming.
He poured water slowly over Celine’s head, rinsing the shampoo with care.
His fingers glided through her strands like a silent dance. The lukewarm water slid down her neck, tracing her collarbone, drawing invisible lines toward her chest.
Sylus’s lips curved faintly, but he said nothing.
He took a small, pristine towel, soft to the touch, and with a slow but deliberate motion, wrapped it around her hair. He twisted it carefully, forming a soft knot.
During the movement, his forearm brushed her bare shoulder.
A jolt shot through them both, sudden, sharp, like a barely restrained electric shock.
Sylus swallowed. Celine closed her eyes, trying not to let too much show.
Her breathing slowed, but the heat rising from her chest was undeniable.
She wanted to stay there. To freeze everything. To freeze him. To grab his arms. Pull him into the water. Hold him, feel him… truly. But she said nothing.
Only silence. Almost sacred, broken only by the faint drip of water falling from the tub.
Celine, still submerged to her chest, seemed tired… but not just physically.
Her eyes lowered, and with a slow sigh, she made a gesture that caught Sylus off guard.
With hesitant, almost tentative movements, she rested her left cheek on his thigh, against the dry fabric of his pants. Her wet skin clung to the warm cloth, sending a sudden shiver up Sylus’s spine.
He hadn’t expected that contact. Not from her. Not in that moment.
Then, with a barely audible voice, she spoke:
“I’m sorry…” Her voice was a fragile whisper, closer to a thought than a sound.
He lifted his gaze, his fingertips still brushing her forehead in a slow, steady motion, as if to reassure her without words.
“For what?”
Celine shrugged slightly, the water rippling gently around her. “For always showing up like this. In pieces. Bleeding, aching, full of questions and silences. And then you… having to put me back together every time. Listening to me. Tending to me. Pretending it doesn’t weigh on you.”
For a moment, he said nothing. He stiffened briefly. The contact of her cheek, so close, so intimate, sent blood rushing to his head.
Just the sound of the water and the steam between them. But then… he softened. In a hoarse voice, barely above a whisper:
“I’m not pretending.”
He stroked her cheek with his thumb, slowly, with that tenderness he reserved only for her. His fingers traced the line of her face, grazed her neck, carefully avoiding the bandage on her wound, and slid finally to her wet shoulder, in a gesture that was at once gentle, protective… and brimming with restrained love.
“I don’t get tired, Celine.” His voice was rough but warm.
“I never could…” There was a pause.
The pressure of his fingers tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if anchoring himself to that contact to keep from saying too much.
“But you’re too damn stubborn.”
Celine let out a soft laugh, bitter and sweet at once.
“Maybe. But you’re always here… even when I don’t deserve it.”
Sylus shook his head, his eyes fixed on her.
“Stop apologizing. I can’t stand it when you do that…”
With a half-sarcastic smile and a look blending affection and exasperation, he added:
“You’re a real pain, you know that?”
The quiet that followed was warm, almost sticky. Heavy with everything they hadn’t said.
And everything they, in that moment, wanted to do. Then Sylus pulled back, just slightly.
A slow, taut movement. The urge to retreat gripped his throat. As if it took more strength than he truly had. For fear of letting go.
Of saying too much. Of shielding himself from her. From her eyes. From the damp skin glistening under the light. From her parted lips, that soft curve that seemed made to be looked at, to be kissed. He was hot. But it wasn’t just the steam from the tub.
His neck prickled—pores open from the heat, skin taut over his shaved jaw.
The damp shirt clung to his biceps, tracing every tension in his body. His ears twitched with a small, involuntary flick, trying to shake off the moisture that had gathered on the fur, irritating, persistent.
The desire… thick, stinging in his throat.
“You need to rest, Celine. It’s late.”
He said it without meeting her gaze. Because he knew that if he did, he’d stay. But just as he began to rise, a hand slipped out of the water. Wet, trembling, Celine’s right hand grasped his wrist. Droplets ran down his bare arm, leaving glossy trails on his skin. Her eyes, lifted toward him, were full of light. Shining. Emotional.
“Stay… just a little longer, with me… please.”
Sylus froze, torn between duty and desire. He was still seated, but angled, one hand braced on the tub’s edge, poised to stand.
Celine, with gentle insistence, pulled his hand—still clasped in hers—closer to her lips.
A kiss. Soft, warm, slow. On the back of his hand, right over the main vein, pulsing. A gesture that said everything and nothing. Gratitude. But also need. And an unspoken desire.
“Thank you… for everything. Always.” Her voice was a whisper.
And it struck him square in the chest, like a knife in living flesh. Sylus’s scarlet eyes widened, pupils dilated.
His brows knitted in a grimace of pain… and resignation. His jaw tightened. A vein throbbed on the side of his neck. His lips parted in a broken breath, one corner of his mouth lifting faintly, touched by an invisible smile.
What the hell are you doing to me, Celine…? His caracal ears rose slightly, quivering. And his tail stiffened, flicking briefly against the ceramic edge, as if holding back a deeper reaction. This kiss… it’s just gratitude, right? He thought it, staying still, still seated beside her.
Too close. Too aware of her entire body. Of how naked she was. Of how beautiful she was. He had cared for her with measured, restrained gestures.
Every movement calibrated to the millimeter, as if a touch held too long could hurt her—or betray him. But inside, he wished he no longer had to measure himself.
He wanted to touch her naturally. To see her naked without holding back, and certainly without seeing her wounded. To be by her side. To embrace her.
He longed to look at her like that, as one looks at the woman they love.
Not as an intruder, nor as a nurse or a guardian, but as a man who belongs to her space, her body, her trust.
He would wash her hair a hundred times if she asked. He would untangle it slowly, unraveling each knot with patience, breathing in the scent of her skin mingling with the steam, as the water trickled down, warm and unhurried, like the desire he tried not to heed.
He would lather her shoulders, her back, every curve, letting her skin slide beneath his fingers like warm, living clay. Would she tremble? Would her hips rise just slightly? Would her breath catch in her throat for one long moment?
But not for mere arousal—though it was there, strong, pulsing, warm in his lower belly, so much that the fabric of his pants suddenly felt too tight, too rough—but because he was there. Because he was with her.
She was the most beautiful thing that had ever been in his hands. He had never stopped thinking it. And all he wanted, more than anything, was to stay.
To stay there. Muscles taut with restraint. Naked too, perhaps. But together.
In the same space, the same breath. Like true lovers do. The ones who belong to each other.
Notes:
The steam clears, but their dance lingers. Thanks for diving in. Will you follow the next whisper of their desire? See you soon. Thanks for reading.
Chapter 7: Whispers in the Steam – Part 2
Summary:
This chapter hums with heat and restraint — an almost-touch, a whispered breath, a moment held too long.
In Whispers in the Steam – Part 2, something intimate unfolds between skin and silence.
Desire simmers. Boundaries blur. The night presses in...
Notes:
Welcome back, dear readers!!!
Steam curls in the air.
Fingers linger longer than they should.
He sees her — truly sees her — for the first time.
And what follows... might just change everything.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sylus didn’t move. He didn’t stand. He stayed there, seated, as time seemed to pause.
He clasped Céline’s hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. His elegant, strong fingers joined with her slimmer ones, wet and fragile. A silent gesture, but full. Complete.
Céline waited for Sylus to settle himself. Then she shifted slightly, resuming her previous position, her face still resting against his thigh. She felt the fabric of his pants, light and warm beneath her cheek, but it was the body underneath that struck her most: toned muscles, tendons subtly tensing and relaxing, like a vibration beneath the skin. His warmth enveloped her, pulsing, alive.
That was when he lowered his other hand and placed his open palm on her soft cheek. Her skin, damp and warm, burned against his like living silk.
His fingers moved slowly, almost reverently, tracing the curve of her cheekbone, then lower, along the line of her ear, caressing it with his fingertip.
He brushed the small, damp strands of hair escaping from the towel, letting them slip through his fingers.
A sigh escaped her lips, unbidden, a mere tremor in her breath—but it was enough.
Enough to make him slow even further, to deepen the contact. His thumb returned to the corner of her mouth, lingering, as if testing its warmth. She moved her lips slightly, an involuntary, delicate gesture that seemed to respond to his touch.
Every movement was slow, devoted, yet charged with a tender sensuality.
As if he wanted to memorize every detail of her face with his skin.
The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was filled with everything that was hard to say.
With everything they desired… and didn’t dare to ask for.
Sylus leaned forward slightly; he could have kissed her shoulder. It would have taken just a moment.
“Let’s stay like this a little longer,” she said.
“Just a little,” he lied.
Céline half-closed her eyes as Sylus’s fingers glided slowly, carefully down her warm neck, brushing the curves of her shoulders, following the line of her shoulder blades, where her delicate skin trembled at the slightest touch.
The warm water trickled down her back, mingling with the heat rising from her skin, amplifying the sensations stirred by Sylus’s caresses.
His fingers, warm and resolute, pressed gently, cleansed her skin, and kneaded her tense muscles, igniting a deep sensuality that coursed along her spine.
Every touch was a carnal caress, a wordless whisper that spoke directly to her deepest, most intimate core, with respect and passion, making it impossible to resist the intense, growing need to feel more of that closeness, that contact—dangerous, irresistible, addictive.
She inhaled deeply, her chest rising slightly under the pressure of Sylus’s fingers, her heart beating faster, almost trying to match that slow, seductive rhythm.
It was involuntary, both restrained and released, a signal from her body responding to a caress that touched her most intimate and vulnerable point.
The steam wove into the silence, enveloping the bathroom in a warm, muffled veil. The black marble tub reflected the flickering lights.
Céline didn’t move. Resting against the taut fabric of his pants, her wet skin cooled slowly against that soft chill, but it didn’t matter. She felt only the firm, secure grip of his fingers intertwined with hers and the steady pulse of his heartbeat each time she traced the veins adorning his hand.
The scent of his skin pierced her chest—dense, warm, animalistic.
In that moment, her butler’s thumb followed the line of her sapphire necklace as if it could read every hidden secret. His heart pounded hard beneath his half-open shirt, desire tightening his throat.
The air between them vibrated, heavy with unspoken words. Only the soft sound of water dripping from the tub and their breaths, merging into a shared rhythm, filled the space. A vulnerability so real it felt tangible.
Céline squeezed Sylus’s hand a little tighter.
He responded with a gentle brush of his thumb against the back of her hand. His caracal tail moved slowly, nervously, and his ears folded back—feral signs of a conflict all too human.
The world outside ceased to exist. Just for a moment. But Sylus was the first to return to reality. He felt duty surge within him like a cold wave. He stirred.
He slowly withdrew the hand that was still caressing her and reluctantly untangled his fingers from hers. He stood, his shadow stretching across the damp floor.
“You need to get out of the water, Céline.”
His tone was firm, almost sharp.
“Your wounds could reopen. You’ve been soaking too long.”
She lifted her face, droplets of water sliding slowly down her chin. A languid smile curved her lips.
“What, are you afraid I’ll turn into a mermaid?”
Her voice was light, but her eyes held something that asked too much. Or perhaps everything. A challenge. A surrender.
The water lapped just at her breasts, her left nipple faintly visible through the dark ripples, an unintentional, fragile, and powerful invitation.
Sylus stared at her, feeling the shadow of a growl rise in his chest.
“That would be one more problem to deal with.”
His gaze stripped her bare before he could stop himself. Her scent—lily of the valley, amber, and something deeper, ferrous, alive—gripped his lungs like a vise. A visceral pull. Hard to ignore.
He turned abruptly, his caracal tail brushing the edge of the sink like a lazy whip, reaching for a towel.
“Come on, get out,” he said.
His voice was steady, but beneath the surface, an instinct with a name gnawed at him.
Céline took a deep breath.
The water’s warmth had begun to fade, and with it, the fragile illusion of safety. She made up her mind: she had to get out, though her body still felt too heavy, too shaken.
She rested her right arm on the edge of the tub, using it for leverage. Her abdominal muscles contracted, her legs trembled slightly. Then, as she tried to lift her left leg over the edge, a sudden, sharp pain stabbed behind her knee like a dagger.
She faltered. She slipped slightly on the wet marble, her foot sliding for a second. Her hands gripped the edge with a dull thud, an expletive escaping her lips.
“Shit…” she muttered, frustrated, clenching her jaw.
Damn it… what an idiot. Fuck, it hurts… She swallowed, trying not to give in. I don’t want to seem weak. Not in front of him.
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes glossy. Everything was going fine.
I ’m a mess…
The water cascaded down her figure like a liquid caress, sliding between her shoulder blades, tracing the full silhouette of her breasts and soft abdomen. Droplets ran along her hips, framing the curve of her buttocks, her long legs, before returning to their home in the tub.
She was naked, exposed. And fragile.
Sylus turned sharply at the sound of the thud and her curse. A sudden weight gripped his chest as the sight of her, so vulnerable, struck him harder than he expected.
His eyes roamed over her—unwillingly, hungrily. He clung to his most treasured skill: concealment.
Her smooth back. The droplets falling slowly. The perfect curve of her buttocks. The faint profile of her breast, barely visible.
It was beauty and fragility fused together. A living painting of restrained desire.
She’s beautiful. That body… it seemed crafted to enchant and break him in the same instant. He had never seen her like this. And he wanted to stay in that moment forever.
Sylus was at her side in an instant.
“Stay still, Céline. Don’t move.”
He grabbed the bathrobe from the chair and wrapped it around her with a precise but gentle motion, starting at her shoulders. He adjusted it carefully. Then he turned her toward him, fastening it at the front without looking too much, though every fiber of his being wanted to.
A raw, naked thought pierced him:
I want her. As she is. Wet. Fragile. Alive. I want her against me, warm, soft.
He clenched his jaw. Part of him hated himself for that thought. The other… wanted only to give in.
As Sylus bent to secure the fabric around her body, she leaned toward his ear.
“I’m tired.”
That was all she said. For a moment, their eyes met.
He didn’t ask anything else. “Hold on to me.”
The steam clung to him, hot and humid.
His black shirt was now a second skin, taut across his chest and shoulder blades, the fabric parting further at the front, revealing glimpses of damp skin beneath the unbuttoned hem.
Every fiber of him was on alert, restrained by a discipline as fragile as wet glass.
But it was his neck that Céline’s gaze settled on. The pores of his skin had dilated in the heat, where sweat mingled with moisture.
His jaw—perfect, square—was cleanly shaven, smooth, glistening with dampness. A droplet trembled exactly where his chin curved. She wanted to touch it. To feel that taut, warm skin beneath her fingers. To trace it with her tongue, slowly, like one might a drop of honey spilled on skin. Her lips parted, unbidden. There was no room for thoughts. Only a raw, fierce physical impulse.
She wanted to touch him. Taste him. Hold him close.
Sylus was watching her. He had caught her gaze on him—felt it before he understood it. He followed the trajectory of her eyes, then lingered on Céline’s full lips, slightly parted. Soft. Rosy. They seemed made for sin. For him to take with his mouth and forget every damned limit.
He would have brushed them with his thumbs, slowly, before devouring them without grace, only need. Slowly, his gaze rose to her eyes. And it was as if all the steam around them evaporated in an instant.
Sylus swallowed, slowly. His Adam’s apple shifted slightly, sharply, as if something had gripped his throat from within. An involuntary, instinctive reflex, trying to tame a growing need. A flash. A jolt of burning intensity. She, vulnerable yet proud. He, controlled, but teetering on the edge of desire. Sylus spoke, his voice calm and soft:
“I’ll take you to the bedroom.”
His hands brushed her wet skin with controlled firmness. He grasped her lightly to guide her, a touch resolute yet surprisingly gentle. Céline obeyed without protest.
Her arm slid behind his neck, her head tilting slightly toward his shoulder. And he, effortlessly, lifted her from the tub. She clung to him, her face buried in his neck, her lips brushing the bare skin between the open buttons. Sylus’s scent ignited her core and set her heart ablaze.
“You’re burning up,” she whispered, half-voiced.
“It’s the steam,” Sylus lied, holding her a little tighter.
One hand supported her under her knees, the other firm and steady behind her back. The gesture was tender. Natural. As if he had carried her in his arms a thousand times.
Her body, warm and damp, pressed against his, the thin bathrobe revealing every curve. Céline’s scent enveloped him completely: a slow, intoxicating trap.
A tremor ran down Sylus's spine. And he moved, carrying her toward the bedroom, his steps feline, the animal strength beneath his skin. His heart beat too hard. Too close to hers.
*** ***
The bedroom embraced the silence like a blanket.
Pearl-gray silk sheets were spread with precision, a tempered crystal and fiber-optic chandelier cast a soft, honey-colored glow, while thick curtains filtered the night and its weight of shadows. A refuge. A place outside of time.
Sylus entered the room with Céline in his arms.
Every step was careful, measured, as if he feared waking her from a dream too fragile.
He set her down gently on the edge of the bed, seating her with care, his caracal tail flicking the air once, restlessly. In the movement, the towel slipped slightly, revealing a shoulder and the curve of her collarbone.
She flinched slightly as her wounds protested against the mattress, but he said nothing. He simply took a pillow and placed it behind her back, lifting her slightly with the delicacy of handling crystal. She clutched the bathrobe to her chest.
“I’ll get you a change of clothes,” Sylus said, his voice deep, almost taut.
Céline’s hands trembled faintly. On her still-pale face, though, a shadow of gratitude appeared, light as a sigh. Her glossy eyes settled on Sylus.
“Yes… please. Can you get me a nightgown?” she murmured, her voice cracked with pain. “Something light… that won’t bother me. It hurts too much.”
Sylus nodded calmly, attentively. “Of course. Wait here.”
He turned toward the walk-in closet, not far off, hidden behind a dark wood sliding door. He opened it silently and disappeared inside.
Céline, meanwhile, leaned back against the pillows, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Of all the bad luck… this too. The pain in her abdomen began to throb, dull and persistent, like a cruel reminder.
Then, through gritted teeth, a thought crossed her mind: Perfect. Mission failed, wounds everywhere, dignity evaporated… and now my uterus decides to go on strike. Fantastic.
*** ***
The walk-in closet was organized with meticulous precision.
Sylus scanned the hangers one by one, his fingers brushing the fabrics with care. Cotton. Linen. Soft jersey. He discarded every garment that seemed too stiff, too rough, too tight. Then he found it. An ivory silk nightgown, fluid, almost liquid to the touch. Thin straps, a discreet neckline, a delicate lace trim at thigh level. Elegant. Simple. Light as a caress. Perfect. He took it carefully and was about to turn when he heard Céline’s voice, low, hesitant:
“Can I… also have some underwear? The ones in the top drawer. The most comfortable ones. It’s… that time.”
Sylus froze for a moment. He already knew. He had sensed it—in the warm bathroom air, in her breath, in the scent that seeped beneath his skin: lily of the valley, amber, and sweet blood.
An ancient, living, instinctive call. Something stirred deep in his chest. It wasn’t desire. It wasn’t discomfort.
It was her, entrusting him with another fragment of her reality, unfiltered, unashamed. Céline wasn’t the type to let her cracks show. In recent years, she had grown ever more reserved. And yet, now, she was showing him even this.
Like one does with someone kept close. Like one does with a partner. And in that simple, intimate gesture, he felt closer to her than he could ever express. More trusted.
“Of course,” he said finally, without turning. His voice was neutral, steady, but light.
He reopened a lower drawer, pulling it gently. Inside, cotton underwear was folded in neat rows. He chose the softest, simplest ones. He took them in his fingers, the fabric warm and familiar to the touch. A simple gesture. But it left him with a clear thought, etched beneath his skin: she was truly trusting him.
Sylus returned to the bedroom, the nightgown folded in his hands. He had brought two pairs of underwear—black and pearl gray—both soft, seamless. He didn’t know which she preferred and hadn’t wanted to choose for her.
He handed her the nightgown first, then the underwear, placing them carefully beside her on the bed.
In a practical but gentle tone, he said:
“Is this okay? It’s light, it shouldn’t bother you.”
Céline looked up. Her pupils settled on the fabric, then on him. A small, tired, but sincere smile curved her lips.
“Yes, it’s perfect. Thank you.”
Her scent hit him. Sweet. Salty. Natural. Pheromones. Warmth. Her body spoke. And he felt as if he had no skin left. He turned slightly, not wanting to be too intrusive.
“Can you manage to put it on by yourself?”
A neutral, almost practical question. But inside, a taut thread.
“Yes… I can manage. But thank you.”
A hint of pride in her voice. A flash of the Céline he knew. Sylus nodded. Then, with a gesture toward the half-open door:
“I’ll put the other one away. I’ll leave you for a moment.”
He disappeared into the walk-in closet. He didn’t want to truly leave her alone. That’s why he left the door ajar.
The silence in the room was intimate, soft. Only the faint clinking of the chandelier’s crystals, stirred by a light draft, broke the air.
Céline moved, sitting on the edge of the bed. Every gesture was slow. The silence was brief. Then a groan. Short, barely broken.
A dull sound of fabric on the mattress. Instinctively, Sylus turned. Céline had her back to him. She had already slipped on the black underwear, the fabric clinging softly to her hips. She was letting the bathrobe slide off, falling along her arms and onto the bed like an empty skin.
Slowly, she took the nightgown and lifted its straps, trying to slip them on without bending too much.
Her bare back, marked by bruises, moved without shame. A daily gesture that pinned him in place with its simple beauty.
The curve of her back. The dimples above her buttocks.
But what struck him most was how she wasn’t hiding.
There was no modesty. Only the naturalness of her body, bare in its ordinariness.
Céline’s body was marked—small bluish bruises dotted her hips and lower back. Purple streaks on her shoulder blades.
And in that moment, he imagined touching her.
Tracing each bruise with his fingers.
Kissing them all, one by one.
If she allowed it, he would have gently massaged her back.
He would have warmed her skin with his palm.
He would have lulled her to sleep like that, with a steady hand and the certainty that she wasn’t alone.
He wanted everything.
The simplicity of two bodies seeking each other without fear.
The normalcy of love, the kind that comes from knowing the other, even in the smallest things.
He wanted trust.
Sylus’s tail moved slowly, instinctively, and his ears tilted slightly. He let the vision wash over him, like a possible dream. One day, perhaps, that back might welcome him. And he would know where to rest his hands.
From now on, every gesture will weigh twice as much, he thought.
Because now I know how little it takes to truly want her. And how little it takes to make a misstep.
Sylus made no sound. Only contemplation.
*** ***
This is strange. He just saw me naked, after practically a lifetime of knowing each other, and I don’t feel the slightest bit of embarrassment… Céline thought, having just slipped on the nightgown. In fact, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
But of all the ways I could have imagined showing myself naked to him… well, not like this.
Not bleeding, covered in bruises, and looking like a wreck. Definitely not the show I would have wanted to give him. Maybe a bit more groomed. Not exactly the femme fatale effect.
She leaned back on the mattress, trying to slide under the sheets. The movement was slow, clumsy. Pain contorted her face, though she said nothing. And definitely less… like an emergency room case, she thought with sad irony.
Sylus emerged from the walk-in closet at that moment.
Notes:
She let him closer. He didn’t step away.
Now the tension tastes different — not fear, not longing, but something in between.
And the night? The night still has secrets to tell.Thank you for reading — every comment, kudos, and silent read means the world.
The night isn't over… and neither is their story. 🖤
Chapter 8: Whispers in the Steam – Part 3
Summary:
Celine and Sylus brush against wet memories and charged silences. Gentle gestures and whispered truths ignite their bond. What will they dare confess?
Notes:
Welcome back Dear Readers! From bed to heart, the third part of Celine and Sylus unfolds: delicate touches and whispered secrets draw them closer. The tension builds, ready to spill. Will you be captivated?
QUICK NOTE: There will be a small delay with the next chapter. Thank you so much for your patience — I truly appreciate your support and understanding as I work to make each update the best it can be 💛
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Lying in pain, Celine heard Sylus’s silent steps drawing near, then saw him emerge from the shadows, his gaze an anchor in the night.
One glance, and he understood immediately. He approached with long, silent, determined steps. Without speaking, he lifted the sheets with one hand, helping her slide beneath them. Then he adjusted the edge over her legs, leaving her room to move without feeling confined.The warm light reflected off the fluid fabric, highlighting every curve, every shadow.
“I’m going to get the hairdryer,” Sylus said, disappearing into the bathroom without waiting for a reply.
When he returned, he sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He set down the hairdryer—a sleek, opaque cylinder, silent even when on—and a comb.
She leaned closer, her damp hair still dripping onto her shoulders.
He untied her hair with a natural gesture, letting it fall freely down her back.
It was still glossy, dark, wet.
Sylus ran the towel through her strands with slow, effective movements, saying nothing for a few seconds. Céline smiled faintly.
“You know this is the second time you’ve dried my hair?”
“It doesn’t count in your dreams,” he replied, caustic.
“Too bad. You were good in some of them.” She laughed softly, tilting her head under his touch.
He ran the comb over her ear, meticulous, without responding.
“No, really… do you remember?” She looked at him through a strand of hair. “I was drenched. Literally. It was pouring.”
He nodded. “And you forgot your umbrella. As always,” he added after a pause, a melancholic note in his voice. She sighed, theatrical.
“I was convinced my beautiful little cape would protect me from everything.”
Sylus raised an eyebrow.
“Even from a storm?”
Céline turned to him, her lips curling into a mock-offended pout.
“My knight promised he’d come get me sooner. Instead, you showed up late… and with that undertaker’s look.”
Sylus lowered his gaze, a hint of irony on his lips.
“There was an accident with those damned automated taxis. I had to take a detour. And while I was at it…”
He paused, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“I stopped to get you those glazed rice biscuits you love. The ones from that tiny place near the station. It was the last bag.”
He paused, turned on the hairdryer, and aimed it at her damp hair, following the strands with careful movements.
“Plus, I got an earful… for spoiling you.”
Céline raised her eyebrows, flashing a cheeky smile.
“You’re the one who led me to the dark side, anyway.”
He huffed softly, running his fingers through her hair to aid the drying.
“Sounds like a good reason to canonize me.”
She tilted her head, softer now.
“Always my fault…”
Then, lowering her voice slightly, with a warmer emotion softening her tone:
“But they’re still the best.”
He stopped. He looked at her for a moment, his eyes suddenly steadier, deeper.
“I remember everything.”
He said it quietly, seriously, with a melancholic undertone. Almost heavy.
She curved her lips slightly, as if catching something behind his words, trying to lighten it without pressing too hard.
“You’d better keep plenty of space in your memory, then. I might become a goldmine of embarrassing moments.”
Her strands clung slightly to her neck, and Sylus returned to them.
He dabbed gently with the towel, then draped it over her shoulders.
He picked up the hairdryer again. A warm, gentle breeze began to move her hair.
Her scent rose stronger, mingled with steam and damp cotton.
Céline lowered her gaze for a moment, then raised it to him.
“Well, you’ve already seen me naked. I doubt drying my hair will shock you.”
She said it with a feigned boldness, almost shielding herself behind constructed lightness.
Sylus didn’t smile. But something in his eyes shifted.
“No,” he said. “The problem is, I’ll remember this too.”
He said it softly, his voice hovering between jest and confession.
For a moment, they didn’t look at each other. But the air around them grew denser. More intimate.
Sylus finished drying her hair but didn’t move away immediately.
His fingers lingered just below her nape, still brushing her, hesitant.
They stayed like that: close, suspended.
The water had stopped dripping. The silence had become full, heavy.
Céline slowly raised her gaze. She fixed her eyes on his, her voice lower, raspy with electricity.
“So, you’ll remember every drop, every strand… or do you need detailed notes?”
Sylus didn’t answer.
He just looked at her, as if holding back something—an instinct, a thought, an entire world.
Then his hands moved, slowly, to caress her shoulders.
They lingered on the thin straps of her nightgown, brushing them as if to commit their texture to memory.
His fingers paused for a moment, almost registering the contact.
Sylus tilted his head slightly. He rested his forehead against her temple. He closed his eyes.
“You’re alive. That’s enough for me.”
They stayed still, bound by that gesture, a heartbeat too long.
Then he pulled away. Slowly. With effort. But without adding anything more.
After a few seconds, he stepped back from her gently.
There was still something to do.
He leaned toward the nightstand, where Céline always kept a bottle of water, a glass, and a box of painkillers he had carefully brought from the bathroom a few minutes earlier.
He turned to her, with a faint smile, as if speaking to a stubborn child, and said in a calm but firm tone:
“It’s time for your medicine… It’ll help with the pain.”
Céline looked at him, surprised by that voice—and the way he said it.
She burst into a short, choked, tired laugh that left an open smile on her lips.
She swallowed the pills, then closed her eyes for a moment, letting the water slide down her throat.
When she spoke again, her voice was different.
Lower. Deeper. An intimate, almost whispered echo.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you… you’re my rock, Sylus.”
He smiled faintly. Just a hint, but true. Sincere.
“Someone has to keep you upright.”
He reached out and brushed her cheek. His hand was steady, warm, sure… gentle. His soft palm rested naturally, and with his thumb, he traced a slow gesture from the corner of her eye to the edge of her lips. Not too long. Not too brief.
Just enough to make her feel he was there.
Céline closed her eyes, tilting her face slightly into his touch, saying nothing.
Then she raised her own hand and placed it over his, as if to hold him there for one more second. Perhaps forever.
That simple gesture warmed her more than any words could.
Soon after, he straightened, his voice lower, more measured.
“Good night, Céline. If you need anything, just call. I’ll be here.”
Sylus was already rising. He had taken a step toward the door when a hand gripped his side firmly, clutching the fabric of his shirt.
A quick, almost instinctive gesture, but laden with pain.
Céline’s hand, strong despite her wounds, held him back with determination, keeping him there.
Her face was tense, marked by exhaustion and the spasms shooting through her leg and hip. But what struck Sylus were her glossy eyes, the trembling of her lips, the voice that emerged with difficulty.
Céline spoke, her voice broken, heavy with emotion and reflection.
“Sylus… wait. Don’t go. You think I do all this without thinking, don’t you? That I don’t care about those around me. But that’s not true.”
She paused, swallowing hard, as if each word reopened a deep wound inside her.
She looked into his eyes, her voice softening to a more intimate, almost fragile tone.
“Today, I was really scared. Of not coming back. Of not seeing you again.”
A heavy silence fell between them, dense as snow falling soundlessly, filling every space.
Then, almost with effort, in a barely audible whisper, she said:
“Can you… stay with me tonight? Just for a little while?”
Her voice was fragile, but every word carried an intangible truth.
“I know I’m being selfish, I know… but I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
The deepest thought pushed through her mind: she didn’t just want physical company; she wanted the security of a bond that gave her strength, an anchor against the void that fear had opened within her. She didn’t want Sylus to think she was indifferent or cold, or that her heart was elsewhere.
Because, in that moment, more than anything, she needed him to understand how real her need for him was—not just as a guardian, but as a refuge, a home.
I don’t want you to think I don’t care about you… But when fear takes over, the only thing I want is the certainty that you’re here. That you won’t leave me alone, even just for one night…
Because without you, all that pain becomes unbearable.
Sylus looked at her in silence, trying to truly understand her.
They had both known the emptiness of loss, yet she seemed unable to leave that pain behind. She sought refuge in him with a strength that sometimes felt more like dependence than comfort. He felt it: her need was genuine… but he couldn’t understand why she insisted on keeping him at a distance.
She says she thinks of others. Of me. But then why won’t she see what I really feel?
They shared the same hole in their hearts, yet every time he tried to get closer, she raised a wall. It seemed there was always something separating them, a boundary she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—cross. And yet… the more I think of her, the more I feel this bond is unique. Even if it’s born of pain.
And perhaps it wasn’t even her fault. Perhaps it was the weight of everything bearing down on her. Their history. Their promises.
But the more he thought about it, the more he knew one thing with certainty: he couldn’t leave her alone. Not that night. And perhaps… never.
His scarlet eyes softened, dark with restrained emotion. He nodded once, decisively.
Then, after a long breath, his voice, low, calm, and laced with something deeper, broke the silence.
“Alright… I’ll stay. I won’t leave you alone.”
He slipped off his shoes and sat beside her on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Céline looked at him as if his mere presence was enough to hold her up. An anchor in the night.
Sylus lay down, his back against the mattress, and without thinking, opened his arm toward her. An instinctive, spontaneous gesture—if he had thought about it for even a second, he might have held back. A silent, instinctual invitation. But she had opened up, shown her vulnerability, and something in him had snapped. The need to hold her, to keep her close.
Céline moved slowly, like a gentle wave, and slid beside him, seeking refuge. Her face sought contact with Sylus’s body, but she wasn’t content with the fabric: she rested her cheek on the bare skin exposed between his unbuttoned shirt. She did it deliberately—with care, almost feigning carelessness—and pressed her cheek right there, against his bare skin. She wanted to feel him truly.
The warmth of his chest hit her like a sudden wave, and her breathing changed. Slower, deeper. She absorbed him. She wanted to feel his scent, faintly spiced, the deep, steady pulse, the life beneath his skin. A pang of sweet relief rose from her core to her chest.
She placed her hand on his chest, over the spot where she felt his heartbeat strongest. A firm but silent caress.
Sylus said nothing. He looked at her for a moment. Then he placed his hand over hers, calmly. He squeezed it lightly, without trapping it. Just to let her know he was there. With her.
With his other arm, he encircled her naturally, drawing her closer. His touch was warm, full. He held her as if she were the most important thing in that moment.
Céline pressed herself against him, like a nocturnal creature finding a nest, lifting one leg slightly to find a more comfortable position, resting it against his. The contact was natural but intense.
A silent shiver ran through Sylus. He felt her warmth, the changed scent of her skin. Sweeter. Softer. As if her body had surrendered to his.
He lowered his gaze, brushing her hair with his chin, as she let out a small sigh, almost a sound—something between relief and surrender. And in that moment, something in him melted.
If you hold me like this, how could I ever leave? he thought, saying nothing.
Céline’s body was warm, soft, alive against his chest.
The silk of her nightgown moved gently against his side, caressing his skin through the fabric.
Her hand, resting on his bare chest, shifted slightly. Her fingers sought his and intertwined with them gently. She was reaching for him. And he, without a word, responded: he tightened his grip and began to lightly massage her skin, where his thumb found the soft curve between her thumb and index finger. A small but attentive gesture.
His tail moved slowly, grazing the bed. His ears tilted slightly, reacting to something deeper—an animalistic, silent emotion rising within: presence, attachment, protection.
He felt her pheromones shift: the scent of fear fading, giving way to something quieter. Sweetness, need, trust.
And his body reacted as if that closeness were essential. As if holding her in his arms reminded him he existed for this: to keep her close.
Céline closed her eyes.
Sylus’s heart beat strong but steady beneath her cheek. A deep, protective rhythm. That sound became her refuge, her shelter. The silence spread through the room like a warm blanket.
Only her still-uncertain breath sought to calm itself. Only his steady heartbeat answered her. Their intertwined hands tightened further, fitting perfectly.
A silent promise. An anchor.
And for the first time that night, amidst the exhaustion, the pain, and all she couldn’t say, Céline felt truly safe. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
She drew closer still, slowly. Her body, shielded only by that thin layer of silk, melded with his. Warm. Wounded. But alive.
He held her instinctively. The arm behind her back grew firmer. He felt all of her. Her warmth, her curves, her breath.
Every movement of hers spoke to him. Every small tremor said: Stay. Don’t go.
Céline let out a deep sigh, almost a soulful sound. Then she let go.
She fell asleep like that, in his arms.
Sylus remained still for a long time, as if any movement might break something sacred.
With his free hand, he caressed her back, from her neck to her hip. Just one caress. Slow. Devoted.
Then he lowered his face and brushed her forehead with a kiss, closing his eyes. He inhaled her scent, letting it slip inside him like a memory he never wanted to lose.
He caressed her face with his fingertips, tracing the line of her cheekbone, then her lips.
A silent touch that asked for nothing. Only presence. Only love.
Every time he saw her return covered in blood, something in him broke.
It wasn’t just fear. It was anger. It was pain. He wanted to tell her. To shout it. To hold her so tightly she could never leave again.
But he wasn’t her partner. He wasn’t her father.He wasn’t even, officially, her family. And yet… to him, she was all of that.
She was home. She was future. She was hope. He had watched her grow.
They had grown together, separated by just a few years… but entire worlds within.
And he had loved her before he even knew what to call that feeling.
It hadn’t been a choice. It had happened. Silent, inexorable, natural. It had been subtler, more real: a slow hunger that, over time, had become need.
She was beautiful in a way that couldn’t be grasped.
Not ethereal, not perfect—beautiful like real things.
The kind that leave a mark.
Like a wound you don’t want to heal.
A taste that returns, even when you think you’ve forgotten it.
Every gesture of hers was full of life, even the wrong ones.
And every time she returned alive from a mission, he felt both relieved… and consumed.
Fragile? Perhaps. But only on the surface.
Inside, she was made of resilience and desire, thorns and softness.
Steel and wildflowers.
And he had loved her more each day.
Even when she threw herself into the void without a parachute. Even when she drove him mad.
Even now, as she kept chasing old wounds with new risks. Even if she was reckless.
And he?
He was always there.
Watching her, supporting her, protecting her, containing her, giving in.
Because the truth was singular:
For her, he would do anything.
Even disappear.
Even let her go.
Even suffer watching her fall in love with someone else… if it meant seeing her alive. Happy. At peace.
He dreamed of a life for her that no longer hurt her.
He dreamed of children with her eyes.
A house filled with laughter.
That smile that, every time he received it, brought him to his knees.
But he was tired.
Tired of being strong. Of being just. Invisible. Tired of desiring her in silence.
Tired of biting his tongue to keep from telling her how much he wanted her.
And yet… if merely being by her side—as a shadow, a silence, a presence that asks for nothing—meant breathing a little longer, then yes. He would keep going.
Because Céline…
was his family.
The only one he had left.
The one who had saved him without knowing it. The one who filled every void and, at the same time, always left one.
The one he desired more than he would ever dare say.
And the one he would never stop loving, no matter what.
And in that moment, with her body pressed against his,
with the warmth of her bare skin filtering through the thin silk,
with her scent so close it clouded every rational thought…
Sylus’s body reacted.
A tremor beneath his skin, a muscle tensing.
Every fiber screamed to hold her, to take her in his arms, to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe.
Just one kiss, he found himself thinking. Just one… He hated her, sometimes.
For how deeply she had entered him without permission. For how much she had taken.
His body acted before he could think.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer until he felt every curve press against his chest, his leg.
His forehead pressed against hers, the tip of his nose brushing her skin.
He was one breath away from kissing her, but…
He stayed there, eyes closed, listening to the heartbeat pulsing between their bodies.
Don’t go. Not tonight.
Notes:
A touch, a promise, and their world trembles. Thank you, readers, for diving into this dance of hearts. Their next breath awaits… what will it reveal?Thank you for reading — every comment, kudos, and silent read means the world. See you soon!
Chapter 9: Vayel's Vow
Summary:
Sylus and Celine share a bond forged in childhood, made of promises and hidden refuges.
Between memories of stolen laughter and silences that wound, an invisible thread keeps them together… or perhaps divides them. An intimate and poignant journey.
Notes:
Welcome back, dear readers.
This chapter will take you into the folds of a bond that defies time, between stolen laughs and silences heavy on the heart.
Thank you for being here, ready to discover another fragment of their story.💫
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Celine’s presence captivated him effortlessly.
Even now, days after that night in her room—the warmth of her body against his, the scent of lily of the valley and amber that had crept under his skin—Sylus couldn’t shake the memory.
Of course, she was very beautiful, but what struck him most was the hidden strength behind a sweetness that seemed more a mask than a genuine trait. Every gesture, every glance revealed a determination he silently respected, a power that urged him to uncover every fragment of her.
Sylus remembered that evening well.
A formal reception, too many people, too many contrived smiles. Lights suspended among the draperies, calibrated scents diffused by tiny invisible sensors. Music played by antique instruments connected to silent circuits, modulating their acoustic output with precision. Everything was refined, programmed, perfect. Almost… artificial.
Celine—just eight years old—had vanished without a trace.
But he already knew where to find her.
He knew all her hideaways. Some they had discovered together—secondary tunnels, hidden terraces among the rooftops, forgotten rooms in the old east wing. Places the servants didn’t frequent and the domestics ignored. Others had been his before she showed them to him, with a proud air and eyes full of challenge. They had spent entire afternoons there: inventing games, doing homework—and Sylus, older and more skilled, always ended up helping her. Other times, just watching the light filter through the curtains or the leaves.
Celine, with the irrepressible enthusiasm of childhood, often looked at him while he explained an exercise and said:
“When you grow up, you’ll go to deep space, become the captain of your own ship… and I’ll be your first officer. We’ll fly among the galaxies, and you’ll take me to see stars no one has ever seen.”
Sylus always smiled at those words.
He didn’t contradict her. He didn’t tell her that, even as an adult, his place would be here, serving and protecting her. Not as a captain of a starship, but as her humble and loyal butler—if she would have him.
At just twelve years old, he already knew: Celine would grow up to inherit the name, the properties, the weight, and the obligations of her family. She would meet and inevitably marry someone of her own rank. Not him.
Not a boy with caracal traits, with a tail and ears that, in elegant salons, would elicit more whispers than smiles.
Yet, in those moments, in their little suspended world made of sunlit dust and secrets, that distance didn’t exist.
It was just the two of them.
And that, for Sylus, was enough.
In those places, time seemed to stand still.
They were “outside the world,” as Celine used to say. And for them, that outside was freedom.
That evening, he found her in the old garden pavilion.
A structure of raw stone, left untouched, with chipped columns and creepers that the family stubbornly refused to remove for “historical value.”
The family dog lay beside her, loyal as always.
She was sitting on the ground, barefoot, her ceremonial dress now dirty, her hair disheveled.
She turned slightly, as if she already knew who it was.
“I don’t like people who talk and say nothing,” she said, with the proud pout of someone who feels in the right.
“I know,” Sylus replied, sitting beside her. “I know you well.”
She huffed, pulling at a blade of grass. “They’re probably looking for you now.”
“Maybe. But my father knows where I go when you disappear.”
The dog stretched noisily. Sylus moved behind Celine, sitting calmly. When he saw her tangled hair, he reached out.
“A simple tight braid doesn’t come undone easily,” he murmured.
“Then make it the tightest of all.”
She stayed silent for a moment, then added softly:
“So they won’t have to style me as they want or put those sparkling ornaments in my hair. I’m not a doll, Sylus. I want to stay myself.”
He didn’t answer right away. With slow but precise fingers, he began to arrange her hair, parting it carefully.
Then, as he started to braid:
“You don’t have to become what others expect. The real you… is just fine as it is.”
She nodded slightly.
“You’re my best friend, you know? Actually… my only one.”
Sylus froze for a moment, his hands paused mid-gesture.
A faint, silent smile touched his lips. No one saw it.
“You’re mine too,” he said simply, resuming the braiding with the same calm as before, with that patience that kept her there, a little closer, without needing words. To feel her closer.
When he finished, he tied the end with the ribbon he wore on his wrist—the same one from his apprentice uniform.
She noticed. She turned, looking at him seriously.
“But that’s your… family cord, isn’t it?” She touched the ribbon carefully.
That small silk band, glossy yet soft to the touch, with a thin border of antique bronze—almost evoking the warm coat of a caracal—was a symbol of family heritage, a sign of belonging and duty. Along the ribbon, a stylized pattern of tiny crossed paws and delicate abstract whiskers repeated in copper filigree, nearly invisible to the inattentive—a visual secret that spoke of his role: a discreet and silent guardian, loyal and present. It was a silent promise—an invisible bond that already tied him to her, a discreet token of a pure, nascent affection, too fragile to be spoken aloud.
Sylus nodded, but with a half-smile.
“So it won’t come undone anymore.”
They laughed heartily, as only they could, releasing that simple, rare joy that bound them.
They laughed often back then, even in the oddest moments, as if they had a secret language of glances and laughter that no one else could understand.
In that moment of complicity, Sylus noticed the small leaf-shaped hairpin Celine had worn at the start of the evening: it dangled crookedly, almost slipping off.
“You’ll lose it like that,” he murmured, gently removing it. With a slow gesture, he gathered a rebellious strand falling across her cheek and secured it to the side, above her ear, careful not to pull.
The metal caught a warm glimmer in the dim light.
“There,” he said softly. “Now it’s secure.”
She watched him for a moment, then a smile spread across her face. Without a word, she knelt, took the hairpin, and removed it again. With an instinctive gesture, she pushed the rebellious strand behind her ear, arranging it as she liked, even if it defied etiquette.
Her eyes were a clear blue, identical to the lake where the young butler, when younger, often went with his father.
He had no memories of his mother, but his father told him that it was there, on those shores, that he had met her. He said that place held a fragment of their story.
In the blue of Celine’s eyes, Sylus found those same shades of calm, deep water, streaked with darker veins, with glimmers of green and even hints of gold, like reflections that changed with time and mood.
“It looks better on you,” she declared with all the seriousness of childhood, and pinned it to the lapel of his jacket.
Sylus remained still, feeling the light touch of her hands.
“It makes you prettier,” she added with a convinced tone, the same one she used when deciding to dress her plush toys as space explorers or star queens.
Instinctively, in the silence that followed, Celine took his wrist, suddenly serious.
“Let’s make a vow.”
Sylus raised his gaze slightly, his warm steel-colored hair—longer than he would wear it as an adult—brushing his forehead and framing his face. His caracal ears—light beige, with mocha-tipped tufts—tilted forward imperceptibly, betraying a curiosity his controlled expression didn’t reveal. Behind him, his soft, sinuous tail moved slightly, an almost involuntary gesture.
“What kind of vow?” he asked in a low voice, fixing her with an intense, warm gaze. His ruby eyes, large and slightly almond-shaped, still held something childish: bright, alert, almost too beautiful to remain impassive. In the soft glow of the pavilion, the warm red of his irises seemed to pulse, capturing every subtle nuance of Celine’s face.
“That we’ll stay united even when everything changes. Even if we have to pretend with everyone else. Just you and me, for real.”
Sylus hesitated, but then offered his pinky.
She clasped it with hers, tightly.
“I swear. From here until we’re old,” he said, his other hand touching his chest in a proud, solemn gesture, like a king before his queen.
“From here to Vayel,” she added, joyful, using that word they had invented together—a secret name, meaningless to others but for them meaning “home, truth, freedom.”
Vayel.
A small word that would follow them for their entire lives.
They didn’t know, that day, that time would push them in different directions. That roles would stiffen, and gestures would have to be more measured, more guarded.
But that laughter…
That, yes, Sylus would never forget.
He didn’t know, back then, that that gesture would linger in his hands for years.
Now, every time he braided that hair, he did so with the same care, the same silence. It wasn’t a habitual gesture: it happened only when, out of necessity, she had to prepare for an important evening.
Celine detested hairdressers. Once, after yet another attempt, she had returned grumbling:
“Three hours sitting there, having my hair pulled and styled as if they had a doll’s head in their hands… never again.” He had rolled his eyes, shaken his head with a faint smile, and from then on, he understood that, in crucial moments, that “burden” would fall to him.
For Sylus, however, it wasn’t merely a practical help: it was a gesture of continuity. A bond formed in childhood, amidst muffled laughter, scraped knees, and a dignity too great for her age.
Every daily act of Sylus seemed to reflect that same discretion: always present, but never intrusive. Always attentive, but never domineering.
He followed Celine’s rhythm, even when she seemed to not want to be followed. He respected the balance she protected with tooth and nail.
And then there were her eyes. Always blue, but no longer the clear ones of old.
Since then, they had endured fleeting joys, deep sorrows, and reflected the weight of maturity. At twenty-five, Celine had grown. There was more shadow in that gaze, and at the same time a different, tempered light that Sylus recognized even from afar.
For him, those irises remained a reflection of the lake of their childhood, but now he glimpsed new currents—slower, more aware—and depths that only time could carve.
A profound truth that she wasn’t yet ready to speak—and perhaps never would.
But he waited for her all the same.
That evening, like so many others, Sylus was in the grand hall, immersed in the warm afternoon light filtering through the curtains and the aroma of the tea he was preparing. On the low table, a small silver leaf-shaped hairpin caught his attention: it was worn at the edges, an old relic of an impromptu childhood game.
He brushed it with a finger and, without realizing, whispered: “Vayel.”
The sound of the word brought to his mind the rustle of leaves in the garden, the races with the family dog, the laughter echoing among the hedges as tall as walls. Days when the world seemed vast yet small enough to hold just the two of them. Now, instead, he remained at the edges of that world, a silent spectator. Always there, always loyal—but no longer at the center.
And alongside those distant memories, a much more recent one surfaced. Less pleasant.
Celine’s grandmother’s room, just after her death.
The light filtered dimly through the half-closed shutters, and the air was steeped in lavender and dust.
Celine was folding a scarf with a slow, methodical gesture. On the bed, a half-open box held faded photographs, a pair of thin-framed glasses, and a digital drive with the grandmother’s voice messages: fragments of a voice now lost. Nearby, on the dresser, a metal key—the one to the room—reflected a dull gleam, ready to close another chapter forever.
Sylus leaned against the doorframe, watching her in silence. Every so often, he moved a foot forward, but with the feeling of intruding on a territory where she didn’t want him. “You don’t have to do it right away.”
She didn’t turn. “Yes, I do.”
“Locking it won’t change what happened.”
“No,” she replied, folding a sweater with obsessive care, “but it will change what I have to see every day.”
He took a deep breath, trying to keep his tone calm. “Every room you lock… is a piece of life you take away. Sooner or later—”
“Sooner or later, nothing.” Sharp. Cutting. “I don’t want anything to remain. That way… there’ll be nothing to lose.”
Silence fell, heavy.
“Sylus…” she said at last, almost in a whisper.
He raised his gaze slightly. “Mh?”
“You should leave.”
A heartbeat, and his question came out softer than he intended.
"Did I do something? What...?"
“No.” Celine gripped the scarf between her fingers. “Why do you stay? There’s nothing left here.”
Those words fell between them like stones. Sylus couldn’t help but wonder if that “nothing” included him too.
“That’s not true.” He tried to keep his tone steady, but a shadow passed through his eyes.
She turned slightly, without really looking at him. “Everyone leaves. Sooner or later.”
“Not everyone.”
“It will happen…” her voice lowered, marking each syllable. “It always does.”
A sharp pang gripped his stomach, swift and cold.
“And I… don’t want it.” Celine resumed folding the shawl, more slowly. “In the end, it’ll just be me.”
There was no intent to hurt him. But it landed like a verdict.
Perhaps he was there only because circumstances forced him to be, not because she truly wanted him.
Sylus felt his patience crack. He wanted to shake her, make her react, shout that she was locking herself in a cage of her own making. But he didn’t. He knew that if he pushed too hard, he’d lose her. And that fear was stronger than any anger.
“I’m still here.” The words came out lower than he’d meant.
Celine didn’t look at him. She kept arranging things that would never be needed again. From her perspective, it almost seemed like she was talking to the room. Or to her grandmother’s memory.
He bit his tongue. He could have told her that he, too, had lost a father. That he knew what that void felt like. But it wasn’t the moment.
“I’ve seen enough departures to know you’re never prepared,” he said at last, with a thread of bitterness. “But when life takes away… sometimes it gives small things too. A sincere smile. A quiet room. A scent that reminds you of home. They don’t fill the void. But they remind you that you’re not alone.”
"Small things..." she murmured, a weary smile that was more a grimace. “They’re bull—”
She stopped, took a deep breath, then added with bitterness: “They seem ridiculous when there’s nothing big left to hold onto.”
Sylus fell silent for a moment, struck by the raw sincerity and disillusionment of those words.
“They’re ridiculous until they’re all you have left.” He shook his head slightly, as if speaking to himself. “We can’t take back what we’ve lost. But we can choose whether to let the rest waste away.”
The butler took a step toward her but stopped. He ran his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, squeezing them for a moment as if to push back a too-familiar pain. He had lost his father before Celine’s parents had died. He knew, too, that running didn’t fill the silence.
She gripped the box tightly. “And if I don’t want to choose?”
Sylus knelt before her, placing his hand on hers. Apprehensive, with a glimmer of hope, he sought her gaze but found only a veil of resignation. He felt lost, for a moment. She was distant, too distant.
“Then… I’ll choose for you. As long as you let me.” He said it with resolve, ready to support her without hesitation.
Celine pulled her hand away, letting his slide off, and wiped away the escaped tears with the back of her hand. She raised her face, her eyes swollen and weary, her voice cracked by a weight that crushed her. “You know, Sylus… I’m tired. Tired of seeing everything disappear.”
His breath caught in his throat. Those words, so raw, so true, overwhelmed him. A weight he couldn’t bear. His eyes misted, a sudden burning forcing him to look away, unable to withstand Celine’s lost and wounded gaze. It was too much: her pain, so vast, so inaccessible, mingled with his own, with the suffering that had never stopped gnawing at him. He didn’t know how to help her, not this time. Even his closeness, his love, didn’t seem enough, and that realization frightened him. What if he couldn’t reach her? What if the future was just another goodbye?
“Do what you want… If you want to stay, stay. I won’t stop you… nor will I beg you to stay,” she added, lowering her gaze, as if those words closed every possibility.
It wasn’t a promise of hope. Just a surrender, delivered with the coldness of someone who refuses to give more.
Those words were a silent blade, but it wasn’t annoyance, nor hatred, nor pure pain. It was Celine’s indifference, a glacial void that hurt him more than any living emotion. Anger or disgust he could have faced, fought; even hatred would have been a sign that he mattered, that he existed for her. But that indifference made him invisible, as if he weren’t even worthy of a reaction, and that feeling—new, alien, unbearable—clenched his chest, stole his breath. He had never felt anything like it. Beneath that chill, a bitter fire began to simmer: the helpless anger of someone who wants to tear down a wall but instead watches it grow, brick by brick.
He couldn’t look at her, not in that moment. He passed a hand over his face, a quick but heavy gesture, wiping away the veil of tears that had blurred his eyes, certain she, staring elsewhere, wouldn’t notice. Every fiber of him reached for her, but he knew there was no battle he could win today.
He stood, straightening his shoulders as if to pull himself together, to piece himself back together.
“Thank you, my lady, for allowing me to remain at your service,” he said in a controlled, almost mechanical tone, but one that betrayed a shadow of torment in an imperceptible tremor of his face. He was the impeccable, detached, calculated butler. But beneath that armor, he remained, irrevocably, human.
Celine didn’t raise her gaze, didn’t answer, and that silence was another wound, another brick in the wall. He didn’t know if her tears were only for those who were gone or if, somehow, they were also for him.
He wondered if staying was truly an act of help… or just one of stubbornness. If he should have said something different. Pushed her more. Or perhaps less.
If he had dared to hurt her, perhaps he would have found a way through. But he didn’t. And the doubt, from then on, never left him.
The clink of porcelain brought him back to the present. On the table, a holographic display flickered faintly, showing data from the bio-synthetic garden. Sylus ignored it, his eyes fixed on the hairpin. He brushed it and wondered if their “Vayel” was still alive somewhere. No, he hoped it with all his being.
Then, as every evening, the door opened.
Celine entered, her plum-colored suit gliding over her fair skin with innate grace. A rebellious strand fell across her cheek, as it had years before, and for a moment, he saw the girl who had pinned the hairpin to his lapel. In her blue eyes, he continued to search for that little corner of theirs and the vow that had bound them. An invisible thread, woven back then, that bound him to her and that he, with almost fierce devotion, continued to guard so it wouldn’t snap.
Notes:
Thank you for following Sylus and Celine into this corner of memories and shadows, where every gesture is a step toward an uncertain future.
I hope their “Vayel” has touched you, as it touches me to write it.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your time, your comments, and your affection: they are the fuel that drives me to continue this story, so don’t hesitate to share what moved you!
See you in the next chapter, with new lights, new secrets… and perhaps some answers.
Until then, may you also guard your invisible thread. 🧵✨
Chapter 10: Tarnath
Summary:
Sylus prepares the tea for Celine, but every gesture hides a desire that neither of them dares to name. Amid the quiver of a caracal tail and the scent of silk, a forgotten handkerchief brings back the weight of an ancient discipline. Who is the mysterious vixen girl who seems to intertwine with Sylus’s past? And why does Celine dream of becoming the light of Lumiere, the faceless hero?
Notes:
Hey folks, welcome to “Tarnath”! Sylus and Celine are sparking something fierce here, but what’s the deal with this vixen girl popping up? And what’s “Tarnath” all about?
Buckle up for a slow, spicy ride full of secrets. Let’s dive in!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As Sylus prepared the tea, it was not merely a service.
He did it for her, for the moment their eyes met, when the silence between them spoke more eloquently than words. It was his way of caring for Celine, of showing her his respect without intruding, without making a sound.
Each day, that small gesture became an act of silent closeness, a respite from the surrounding world, a refuge for both of them. A harmony that transcended the mere act of service, telling of something deeper, an invisible yet total understanding that existed only between them.
Yet, in those moments of apparent serenity, something stirred within him—an unspoken restlessness, never fully subdued. Every step of Celine’s, every rhythmic sound of her heels on the tiles, called to him like a reflex.
Despite the impeccable order of the room and the light filtering through the curtains, a contained chaos grew inside him: measured tension, questions he could not extinguish. Each time he looked at her, a mixture of longing and lucid unease coursed through him.
Sylus would never admit it—perhaps not even to himself—but he harbored the thought that, one day, she might find someone who could do for her what he did. His presence, his devotion, were something he knew to be essential to her, yet he feared—rationally, not emotionally—that it might not be enough. He was aware of how much he had become part of her life, her routine, but he feared that habit could erode even the strongest bond.
As a butler, he had always lived in the shadows, his life marked by rules and discipline. But for now, he did not think of tomorrow. His role was to protect her, serve her, stand by her side. Yet in certain moments, when the silence grew too deep, that yoke seemed a fine line between devotion and imprisonment. Each day, he focused on the present, on how he cared for her, on the balance he managed to maintain, even though he knew that beneath that calm surface, his heart beat with an emotion he could not fully suppress.
Celine approached the table where the tea had been carefully prepared, and Sylus, with a grace that mirrored hers, handed her the cup.
The warmth of the tea seemed to blend with the serene atmosphere they had both created. In that quiet filled with understanding, they found themselves in their corner of tranquility, far from daily battles, wrapped in the calm that only their companionship could create.
“Good evening, my lady, welcome home,” Sylus said, bowing slightly in greeting. His voice was calm, but there was a hint of unease he could not stifle.
“How was your day?”
Celine gazed at him, her enigmatic smile veiled by a natural, almost involuntary sweetness that lit her blue eyes with a warm, sensual glow. Her gaze slid over his face, lingering on the sharp line of his jaw, then on his lips—full, perfectly defined, and slightly parted—calling to her in a way she could not ignore. The caracal ears peeking from his ash-colored hair, slightly tilted, quivered with a wild grace that enchanted her.
They seemed even more captivating under that light—warm and velvety, like small secrets to be cherished. She had discovered herself adoring them unexpectedly, almost tenderly, as one comes to love the most intimate quirks of someone who makes their heart race.
A thought brushed her mind, sweet and almost childish: I wish I could touch them, just to see if they’re as warm as they look.
And then, she realized with sudden clarity that she had never touched them—not even for a moment, not even in a careless gesture when they were young. It left her bewildered, a silent absence that now surprised her.
Taking the cup from her butler’s hands, she let her fingers deliberately brush against his, a slow contact, almost an invitation, that sent a shiver down Sylus’s spine. Then, with a fluid motion, she loosened her hair, a strand falling onto her shoulder, grazing the edge of her plum-colored dress—a movement that drew his gaze despite himself.
“Good evening, Sylus,” she replied, her voice soft, a whisper that seemed to caress him.
“Today was a long day. I had to deal with some Evol smugglers, but luckily it was just surveillance, so not too dangerous. Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she recounted, running a hand through her hair as if to shake off the fatigue. She lifted her gaze to him, as if, in that very moment, she remembered how much good it did her to see him. She paused, her tone lower, almost intimate.
“Still… taxing.”
Sylus nodded, his heartbeat quickening, a rhythm reflected in his feline features: his caracal ears twitched slightly, a nervous quiver, and his tail lashed the air with a quick, almost involuntary motion, betraying the storm raging within him.
His gaze settled on her face, and for an instant, he saw the Celine of that night: her fragile body, marked by wounds, as his hands carefully stitched each cut, the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, her broken breath that made him fear losing her. Though relieved that today had not been dangerous, the knot in his stomach never loosened—not when it came to her.
“I’m glad everything went well, madame,” he said, his voice deeper, heavy with an echo of that night.
“But I know how heavy it can be… and what the cost is.” His voice, deep, cracked with a shadow of anger and sadness.
Celine, seated on the sofa, crossed her legs with a slow gesture. She stared at the fire in the hearth, the silent dancing flames reflecting in her blue eyes like faded memories.
Sylus’s voice still echoed in her mind. Heavy words. True ones.
“I know,” she said at last, her voice thin but unbroken. A taut thread, stretched too long.
“It’s never easy… and it’s even less so for you. Having to pick me up every time I come back… in that state.”
She fell silent for a few beats. Then she turned, an uncertain smile on her lips.
“But we’ve seen worse, you and I. Haven’t we?” She allowed herself a moment, as if seeking confirmation in that shared memory.
“And despite everything… you’re always here.” Her eyes sought his, warm, slightly ironic, but filled with a gratitude that needed no embellishment.
It was so easy to forget, for a moment, the distance between them. But a glance held too long, a silence just a bit too charged, and everything fell back into place.
“Keeping my world together while everything tries to collapse. With that relentless composure of yours, with those silences…”
She feared those suspended moments. Because deep down, she didn’t know what truly lay within them. Patience? Pity? Or just that sense of duty he wore like a second skin?
She observed him closely, as if wanting to scratch the surface. To see beyond the reflection and glimpse, more and more, the man behind the butler, behind the ears that occasionally twitched, behind that tail that always seemed restrained, like him.
“I can’t even imagine how much this weighs on you, all of this,” she said in a low voice, almost ashamed. And immediately, she hated herself for showing too much.
Sylus smiled. A restrained, measured expression, but warm—as if, for a moment, he allowed himself to be just himself, not the role.
“My commitment is never a burden, madame,” he replied, his voice steady but kind.
“My role is to care for you.”
And there it was again: the duty. The role. The right words.
As he spoke, he slightly loosened the knot of his tie—a simple, almost imperceptible gesture, but for him, laden with meaning. Yet to her, it seemed intimate, too human.
His gaze lingered on her for an instant. Not professional. Not impartial.
At times, Sylus wished he could seek advice from his father, the man who had watched over this house for years with the same dedication. He wondered what he would think if he knew the depth of those feelings, if he would understand the struggle waging in his heart.
Perhaps he would smile with that stern composure, perhaps he would shake his head in disapproval, but he would surely remind him of the code. Yet, without that guidance, Sylus often found himself alone with his thoughts, torn between what he desired and what his role allowed.
He couldn’t even imagine his reaction.
The contours of that stern but beloved man’s face, once so familiar, now faded into the fog of memory, along with his unmistakable way of walking, speaking, teaching him who he was meant to be. It was as if those aspects, those memories, had drifted away to protect his mind and heart from a pain too great.
At times, he felt like a spectator of his own life, distant, alienated, a silent guardian of his own spirit, ready to close himself off whenever emotions threatened to overwhelm him.
You were always wiser than me, Father. How would you have wanted me to face all this? He had only ever had him.
He didn’t even know what had happened to his mother.
As a child, he had been afraid to ask. He feared the truth would hurt more than the absence itself. Or that it would deal the final blow to his father.
Perhaps she had died. Perhaps she had abandoned him deliberately. As he grew, he learned not to seek blame—at least, not a simple one.
He knew life pushed people toward difficult choices, toward twisted paths.
Perhaps someone—his family—had driven her away. And she, for reasons he couldn’t understand back then, had let it happen.
He didn’t blame her. Not truly.
Sometimes he just wondered why: what had happened that was so grave as to justify such a stark separation. He didn’t blame her. Not truly.
Or perhaps, truly, she hadn’t wanted him.
He had found himself thinking it might have been a mistake—a fragment of the past reinterpreted until it seemed acceptable.
He no longer felt pain. Or at least, not in the way one feels a wound.
Rather, a void. A cold, almost clinical absence. A distance that had helped him move forward without collapsing.
He didn’t remember her, except for the fragments of stories and glances his father shared in spurts when he was young. Then, over the years, those tales faded, stifled by a pain his father no longer wished to show. Sylus stopped asking, learned to respect that silence, even as that void grew within him.
Now, in moments like these, that absence made itself felt with renewed force. He wondered, with an almost clinical detachment, what his mother had been like: her face, her character. They said she was beautiful, that her meeting with his father wasn’t love at first sight, yet he loved her deeply.
Despite everything, that void within him never stopped echoing, like a sound that could find no wall to break against.
Perhaps, Sylus thought, the feeling he had for his mistress was part of that ancient need.
When he looked at her, he felt something deeper stir beyond affection and responsibility. He loved that woman with all the strength of his instinct and soul, a passion that ignited not only in his mind and spirit but also in his body—a primal call that found peace only beside her.
With her, everything was different.
He sought in her not just a companion or a mistress to serve, but an anchor, an authentic and solid bond capable of giving meaning to that desire for family and continuity woven into his ears and tail, his blood and his history.
He didn’t want just a name or a legacy, but something that went beyond rules and duties.
He didn’t desire an ordinary family, nor children for the sake of lineage or tradition. He wanted something real, something deeply human and animal at once. And he knew, he felt, that such a family was possible only with her.
Deep down, that was likely what drove him to stay by her side. To protect her. To guard that fragile world they shared.
He didn’t want to be merely her refuge.
He longed, one day, to be welcomed.
There were nights when he longed for her with an almost painful intensity. To feel her arms around his chest. To allow himself the luxury of being small, just once. Protected. Because he had been holding on for too long, and even those who protect need to know there is a place where they can rest.
He didn’t feel broken. But neither did he feel whole.
He was something in between: someone who had chosen not to collapse, not out of pride, but out of respect—for himself, for his late father, for her.
For what still held them together.
Over time, he had come to know himself this way: as someone who didn’t wait to heal before moving forward. Who sat beside his pain, listened to it, studied it.
He didn’t avoid it. He often stopped to look within, even when it wasn’t pleasant.
And perhaps it was that silent effort, that constant work on himself, that made him capable of seeing others.
Of seeing her. Celine.
Yet, even now, he wished she were different.
More open. Softer. More present in the days without storms—not only when pain bent her.
He wanted to feel sought after, not out of necessity, but by choice.
For her to look at him as she once did, before life made them rigid. Before the world imposed armors.
He wanted to be, for her, not the only one, but the essential one. A rooted presence.
Not just the shadow ready to serve, but the man she recognized, saw, chose.
He knew he couldn’t ask for her love. Not in that way, at least.
But he wanted a gesture. Just one. Not as a reward, but as proof that he, too, existed. Not as loyalty repaid, but as a deep, sincere bond.
He wasn’t a child. Nor a lover seeking attention.
He was just a man—a man who, for too long, had been the shoulder to cry on, the rock to lean against.
But never the body to hold when the night stretched long. And deep down, he knew, there was hunger, thirst, need.
Urges he hadn’t always managed to contain.
He had had bodies. But they were little more than surfaces. Quick, mechanical encounters.
A beastly relief, followed immediately by emptiness.
With her—the vixen girl he had known since boyhood, also a servant of a noble house and a member of the Circle—it had never been love. Nor passion.
Just flesh.
A silent pact. Two solitudes seeking each other without truly seeing.
No kisses. No words. No names. They stripped only what was necessary. Swift. Impersonal.
A silent, secret pact, made of nothing but flesh. Because intimate relationships between humans with different animal traits were frowned upon.
He had never let her touch his tail or his ears—things to be offered only in a true bond.
But she wasn’t a partner. And he wasn’t one to her.
She was nothing more than a vessel to release frustration for a fleeting moment; to her, he was the tool that served the same purpose.
The first few times, she had tried to brush against him, to touch more, perhaps seeking a semblance of “normality.”
Sylus had stiffened, furious. He had dressed without a word, leaving before anything was concluded. Always the same. Swift. Impersonal.
From behind, almost always—fewer glances, less contact.
Pants lowered just enough, bodies bent, the bare minimum and nothing more. Penetration. Climax. Silence.
Sometimes their very pheromones repelled each other.
The closeness became unbearable, and they pulled away abruptly.
Like two stray animals sensing danger, amplifying the feeling that nothing worked between them. It was then that they broke apart suddenly, as if repelled, sometimes finishing alone, each on their own. Always protected encounters.
Sylus had never come inside her. Sometimes he did so outside.
Other times, they stopped beforehand. Letting the tension die on its own. Like them. It was a farce. Not pleasure. Not connection.
Just contact without true touch. And yet, it was worse than being alone. Because when he touched himself, it was always Celine he saw.
He imagined her beneath him, warm, welcoming, alive.
The invented scent of her skin, slightly damp. Her voice calling him. Even with his eyes closed: it was always her.
Always her. Even in the wrong body. Always present. Always distant.
Each encounter lasted mere moments.
A tremor. A brief relief. Then nausea. Cold. Discomfort. Guilt. An even greater void. That was why he had stopped.
Because it wasn’t what he wanted. Not with whom he wanted. There was nothing to take, and everything he gave came back to him like rejection. Not love. Not passion. Not even true pleasure. Just background noise. A mute voice reminding him how far he was from Celine.
What he desired from her wasn’t a night of abandon, but consistency. Not a release, but a reunion. A fusion.
Yet he feared it, if it came only out of pity. He couldn’t bear her seeking him just to not feel alone.
Not because his pride would suffer—Sylus wasn’t fragile in that way.
But because he knew it would be worse afterward. When she, regretful, pulled away.
He didn’t know if he would ever find the strength to refuse her if Celine sought that closeness in a moment of weakness. But he knew that, to spare her regret, he would deny himself.
Because Sylus wasn’t afraid of pain.
He was strong enough to carry it within, to face it, dissect it, understand it. Emotions didn’t scare him. He took them by the hand and let them pass through him. That was his strength: his self-awareness.
But there were nights when his imagination broke him. Nights when he longed to feel her hands gripping his chest. He saw it: naked, in her arms.
His face against her chest, listening to its beat. Her hands stroking his back. Her fingers intertwining at the base of his ears. His tail wrapping around her legs. A refuge. A gesture of intimacy.
Not sex. But a right. To lower his defenses, just once. To be held. Chosen. Recognized.
This was Sylus: strong enough to bear any pain. Fragile enough to crave being seen.
And he knew: Celine had suffered, had closed herself off, had drifted away. That silence had consumed him, made him feel invisible. Yet he had stayed.
Because to love, he thought, doesn’t mean to demand. It means to stay. Even when it hurts.
That evening, though—in the bath—something had changed. It was she who had taken his hand. Who had leaned down. Who had kissed it.
A small gesture. Yet immense. An act of care. Of recognition. A silent, warm, unexpected
“I see you.”
And that—more than any touch, more than any word—made him falter.
Because for an instant, it wasn’t he protecting her. It was she safeguarding him.
Sylus had clung to that memory like a rope in the void. He had held it within, like clutching a lit candle in a moonless night.
Because in that kiss was everything words had always avoided. The unspoken. A promise.
That was when he understood. He wanted Celine not just as a woman.
He yearned for her as a root. As a presence. As a home. He sought her body, yes—and the thought set him ablaze, coursing through his veins like a searing blade. But more than that, he craved surrender. Reciprocity. The right to be seen.
Not to be the silent shadow at her side, but part of her world. Not the only one. But the indispensable one.
And perhaps—just perhaps—that kiss on his hand, that tiny contact steeped in meaning, was the first step.
A breach. A seed that, if nurtured, could become a bond. A bond that, deep down, both were beginning to desire.
In their own way. In silence, in slowness, in trembling.
Perhaps I should have left, he had often thought. When she asked me to. Without fearing that everything would shatter… maybe even myself.
But I stayed. At first, I wanted to believe it was for duty. For affection. Because she needed me.
But now I know: It was for me too.
I clung to her. Too much.
To that role, that place, that illusion that one day something would change.
He reproached himself silently as he looked at her: perhaps it wasn’t love, or at least not only that anymore.
Perhaps it was just fear of fading away. A slow dependency, built through restrained moments and habits. And I know. I know well.
It’s selfishness. But the raw truth is that I can’t let her go. I can’t.
He stood still for a moment, then inhaled slowly, deeply. His chest rose slightly, he held his breath, and released it in a sigh. A single, measured breath that held more words than he was willing to say.
Then he turned. Not toward something—but away from her.
He approached the silver tray, partly to avoid standing before her, exposed.
And it was in that subtle, almost imperceptible space between one gesture and another— that Celine watched him.
She felt, with painful clarity, how fragile the boundary was between what she felt…and what she feared he could never return.
Not for love. Not for her. Not truly.
To keep from being overwhelmed by those thoughts, by that sea of doubts and forbidden desires, Celine leaned forward from the sofa.
She took a sugar cube with her slender fingers, brushing Sylus’s arm in a slow, almost distracted gesture—but not entirely innocent.
Her scent enveloped him.
His tail stiffened abruptly, a nervous reflex, before moving again with its usual controlled grace. She noticed.
The corner of her mouth curved into a faint, secret smile. Another entry added to her mental catalog.
Since that night in the bath, when Sylus’s tail had coiled around her calf in a moment that had almost brushed a kiss—or so she had thought, before he stopped—Celine had begun a silent game: Observing. Deciphering. Cataloging.
Perhaps she had misread it. Perhaps not. Perhaps it had been mere instinct. Perhaps there was nothing to interpret.
Yet, for a moment, she had believed he would kiss her.
She had felt that missed breath like a void, and since then, she sought signs in every slight movement.
And though she tried to convince herself it meant nothing… she didn’t stop looking.
The position of his ears. The sway of his tail.
The shifts in rhythm—beats she couldn’t hear but was learning to read.
She had read that caracal tails were sensitive. Very sensitive.
Maybe that’s why his moves like that whenever I look at him.
Perhaps it was like… a kind of emotional barometer.
Or something more. Something he would never say—and that she shouldn’t want to know so badly.
But she couldn’t help herself.
It intrigued her. Perhaps more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.
The ears that folded back when he was worried. The tail that gently lashed the air when he was tense. Imperceptible signs, manifesting only with her. Only when they were alone. A secret language, an unspoken intimacy that made her smile softly.
In public, Sylus was the perfect shadow: composed, impenetrable, almost unreal, Celine thought.
But here… here with me…He lets go. He yields. Even if just a little.
And every time he did, Céline felt something melt inside her.
Perhaps she was deluding herself. But sometimes… sometimes he seemed different. And that made her tremble. And hope.
In hybrid humanoids with caracal traits, like Sylus, the tail was far more than a mere evolutionary remnant: it was a sensory extension of the sexual nervous system.
Every touch, every brush, was registered by the body as an immediate, instinctive experience, difficult to mask.
Composed of bundles of hypersensitive nerve endings, it reacted to external stimuli viscerally, as if it were a secondary erotic organ.
During intimacy, a slight pressure at the base could trigger involuntary spasms and a neurochemical surge akin to a human orgasm.
Direct stimulation could elicit powerful, even involuntary physiological responses—tremors, twitches, pelvic muscle contractions, accompanied by pheromone secretions and a spike in neural activity in the limbic system.
In essence, it was an ultra-sensitive erogenous zone, capable of inducing physical pleasure before even psychological.
For this reason, many hybrids developed an almost phobic sensitivity to touch, while others considered it a point of vulnerability to conceal—or to offer only to those they truly loved.
For this reason, touching it was an act of profound intimacy, even a social taboo.
It wasn’t uncommon for an unexpected touch or an uninvited caress to provoke unpredictable reactions: low growls, immediate stiffening, or an emotional withdrawal that could last for days.
Some called it “the silent kiss,” others “the forbidden zone.”
The ears, though still private, were considered more acceptable to touch. They quivered in response to strong emotions—desire, affection, shame.
In childhood and adolescence, they were often the subject of play or reassurance, but as adults, they became a highly readable emotional indicator for those who knew how to interpret their micro-movements.
In adulthood, they remained a secondary erogenous point, sensitive to the touch of loved ones, receptive to slow caresses, light bites, or simple brushes. They were like windows to his emotions. They folded back in embarrassment. They stretched in desire. They lowered in submission… or trust.
In public, however, hybrids were trained—or self-disciplined—to maintain a neutral posture.
The tail relaxed. The ears still or slightly tilted, to avoid misunderstandings or accidental stimulation.
It was a form of social decorum, akin to controlling body language in humans, but harder to maintain due to the reflexive nature of the appendages.
Only in private settings—or with those of utmost trust—did the barriers lower. And then… every fold of an ear or twitch of a tail became a confession.
Her gaze drifted to Sylus’s chest. A shadow of playful, elegantly provocative disappointment crossed her eyes.
“Sylus,” she said, her tone caressing.
“You’re missing the handkerchief. You wouldn’t want to present yourself like that, would you? Come here, let me take care of it.”
Sylus lowered his gaze to the pocket of his jacket, as if only then realizing the absence. His brow furrowed slightly, caught by a moment of disorientation.
For an instant, something in him cracked—a sharp, almost painful awareness.
It was a small thing, yet… one of those small things his father had always deemed of absolute importance. The handkerchief had to be present. Always.
Folded with precision. The top edge visible.
A Tarnath fold. An ancient name, inherited from the founders of the Circle of Halwen—the silent elite of butlers serving the great houses.
It wasn’t an academy. Nor a secret society.
It was something subtler. More austere.
An unwritten institution, passed down and upheld by select lineages.
The butler’s task was not merely to serve.
It was to watch over. To protect. To guide and support the houses… even when they could no longer guide themselves.
Each generation, only one candidate from the historic families was chosen to represent their lineage. And among the Onychus, for over two centuries, no one had ever dared question the choice. Sylus’s father had been selected over his brothers. Now he had been chosen over cousins, aunts, half-sisters.
A direct line of excellence. And that was why that detail weighed on him more than Celine, or anyone, could imagine.
It wasn’t an ornament. It was a symbol. Discipline. Elegance. Control.
Every butler trained at Halwen learned to distinguish the four formal folds, each suited to a specific occasion: official receptions, internal councils, public events, and even critical assignments. But the Tarnath fold was reserved for a single purpose:
To serve the mistress or master directly, in a domestic setting. It was the fold of guarded intimacy.
Of absolute control. Of discreet presence. And he… had forgotten it.
It wasn’t like him. It wasn’t like someone trained to be who he was. It wasn’t like someone bearing his father’s name.
A man who would never have tolerated such a missing detail.
“Details are the silent voice of respect, Sylus,” he used to say often.
“Whoever misses a detail… misses the heart of the task.”
His heart felt heavy. Not for the handkerchief. But for what that oversight symbolized.
He leaned toward Celine, compliant, without protest. But inside… something stung.
He was losing clarity. Perhaps rigor. Or perhaps… it was her.
He thought back to another evening, years before, when it had all begun.
Seraphéne Estate – 10 Years Ago
7:03 PM | Sylus’s Room
The suit was black.
Not just any black. A deep, glossy black, with faint cobalt glints visible only when the light struck at certain angles. Clean lines, a formal yet not rigid cut.
The cufflinks, in midnight blue enamel, had been crafted specially for the occasion, engraved with the emblem of NeuraVitae, the new biotechnological company of the Serahmonds, which that evening would be unveiled to the world.
Sylus was already prepared. Polished shoes, tie perfectly adjusted, impeccable posture.
All that remained was the pocket square. He had been holding it between his fingers for ten minutes—too long, by his standards.
It was the first time he felt this way.
His caracal ears, pointed and velvety, twitched slightly, almost imperceptibly in the dim light. His tail, resting with apparent calm, betrayed a subtle quiver.
It was rare to see him like this.
He, Sylus Onychus, the prodigy. The youngest admitted to the Circle.
The only one in generations to have inherited the traits of his great-grandfather, an almost mythical figure of their lineage: ruby-red eyes like aged wine, a razor-sharp intellect, the bearing of an elegant predator.
In an era when humans with animal traits were increasingly rare—sold, displayed, forgotten—Sylus was a living legacy.
The Onychus family had always mated only with other caracals, safeguarding their lineage like a relic. They had rejected unions with common humans and regarded those with different animal traits with suspicion. Yet Sylus—born out of time—was the perfect synthesis.
Those who didn’t hate him envied him. Those who didn’t envy him desired him.
Or perhaps… all three.
Knock. Knock.
“Come in,” he said, without turning.
The door opened discreetly. No one in the house would have dared disturb Sylus, except his father.
He entered with measured steps. Tall, lean, with the natural elegance of someone who never needed to flaunt it. His ashen hair, like his son’s, was streaked with pure silver. His eyes, though, were a different shade: lighter, speckled amber, deep, ancient. He, too, bore with pride the feline ears and long caracal tail, distinctive marks of their house.
Sylus spoke first, his voice lacking its usual control.
“I’m ready.”
The man approached and stopped behind him. He looked at his son’s reflection in the mirror.
In the large mirror, their figures reflected perfectly: two elegant shadows, carved from the same mold. But between them ran the difference between experience and ambition.
“The tie knot is good,” his father said in a neutral tone.
“The right cuff is slightly tighter than the left. And the pocket square…”
He took the item from his son’s hands with care.
“Not like this,” he said simply.
With slow, precise movements, he refolded it according to the ancient Onychus tradition.
A perfect fold, invisible to common eyes but recognizable to those who mattered.
Then he placed it in the pocket.
Flawless.
Sylus lowered his gaze slightly. For a moment, he seemed younger than his eighteen years—yet his mind betrayed an age far beyond that.
“This evening is very important,” he said.
“I know.”
“Mr. Luceren will present NeuraVitae. The top figures in research, high finance, and the Circle will be there. People who observe, judge, remember.
All the key names in the sector will be here. Scientists, nobles, financiers, international observers."
He paused.
“And you will have your first official assignment as second butler.”
The silence between them grew faintly charged.
Then:
“I see you’re nervous.”
Sylus lifted his chin, his ruby pupils steady, but his ears lowered imperceptibly. An involuntary gesture.
"I'm just… trying to be worthy."
His voice was calm, but held something back—like a drawn cord not yet snapped.
"I can't afford to fail. Not tonight."
His father smiled. A brief, restrained smile. But real, as rare as summer snow.
“It’s human, you know. Even for someone like you.”
Then, with greater gravity:
“You’ve come a long way, Sylus. I know how much you’ve given to get here. The Circle, the trials, the expectations…”
He looked at him closely.
“You’ve conducted yourself with discipline. With honor. Not many can say that at eighteen.”
“You’ve faced every challenge with boldness, Sylus. With a confidence that sometimes bordered on arrogance. The kind that accompanies the best. Yet you’ve always been right.”
He placed a hand on his shoulder. A simple gesture. But between them, it weighed more than a thousand words.
“Remember this: it’s not the absence of fear that will make you great. It’s how you control it.” A pause.
“You will be an excellent butler. But above all…” His amber eyes grew more intense.
“You will be a man worthy of respect. And the worthy guardian of our legacy. That’s what matters.”
Sylus nodded slowly.
His face remained composed, but something softened deep within. His tail, rigid until that moment, moved slightly. Not a calculated gesture—but an intimate, authentic reflex.
And for an instant, he was just a son who had made his father proud.
That evening, in the villa…
In the winter garden, the glass reflected a dozen select guests, dressed in silk and ambition.
Celine Serahmondi, fourteen years old, was a presence that defied every expectation.
Beautiful, with a brilliant gaze and a sharp intelligence that left no room for doubt: in her was already the lucidity of someone who judged the world with eyes too awake for her age.
An acute emotional intelligence, devoid of naivety, capable of reading people to their core—even when they were broken—and never letting herself be tamed. A lucid, deep kindness, neither complacent nor indulgent. More instinctive than Sylus, but no less profound.
Rebellious, but not for caprice. Out of necessity. Out of honesty.
She didn’t reject rules; she rejected pretense.
It was evident even in how she dressed.
The gown she wore was elegant but utterly nonconformist to the evening’s imposed etiquette.
A starkly modern cut, almost austere, essential, clean, far from the childish frivolity many parents would have chosen for a girl her age.
The colors? Dark. Not suited to her rank, and even less aligned with the official palette of NeuraVitae—carefully curated by her parents and the high-ranking figures with meticulous obsession.
But she, no. She had chosen tones close to those worn by Sylus and Varian, as if silently claiming them.
No floral details, no calculated transparencies. Just sharp, precise lines. It was a gown “for herself,” not “for others.”
It was very much her.
Among the children of the elite, Celine seemed like a note out of tune.
And deliberately so. She ignored introductions, probing questions, calculated smiles.
She far preferred the company of Edmund Ashram Holt—an elderly scientist with an illustrious past, trembling hands but a mind still razor-sharp.
She affectionately called him grandfather, and only with him did she seem truly happy to be there.
He had watched her grow up among laboratories, events, and conference halls.
He was a living bridge between past and future. The only one to whom Céline smiled with sincerity.
She loved talking with him about discoveries, ethics, what technology could truly do for the world if taken from the wrong hands.
And, though she didn’t say it aloud, the girl had long nurtured a different dream.
An idea her parents would have called reckless, dangerous, even demeaning to her and her abilities. Not to follow the path already laid out for her.
Not out of escape, but by choice. She wanted, one day, to become a Hunter. The real ones.
Those with a name almost ironic for how legendary it had become:
U.N.I.C.O.R.N.S.
A small, select, invisible team. The best of the best. Those who faced the dark corners of space, where no one wanted to go.
The first to respond when unknown creatures—the Wanderers—came from the void. The only ones authorized to handle ProtoCores.
Not just soldiers: explorers. Free minds. Witnesses to truth. It wasn’t the danger that fascinated her. It was what they represented: the possibility that something, somewhere, was still true.
Out there, among the stars and darkness, truth seemed more naked. Less tamed. Real. Once, she told Edmund:
“I admire the Hunters. The real ones, I mean. Not the mercenaries. Those who go where no one wants to, to understand what lies beyond. To me… they don’t run. They seek. And that makes all the difference.”
It was the seed of something that would bloom years later.
When she would lose what she knew. And take another path.
But Celine didn’t just admire Hunters in general.
For some time, she had followed rumors—half-truths, half-legends—about a prominent figure, a name whispered more than declared:
Lumiere.
No one had ever truly seen him. It was said he had protected an entire city alone, saving it from one of the most destructive Wanderers ever to appear.
There were no official records. No certain proof. Only fragmented, contradictory testimonies. But one thing always recurred:
when he arrived, there was light. A bright, warm light. Blinding.
And some recalled a figure dressed in pure white, armed with a sword, moving with absolute precision. To some, he was just a legend.
To others, a fabrication by the Hunter association to reassure citizens. The idea of a flawless hero, ready to intervene in the darkest moments.
But Celine believed in him. Or perhaps she didn’t.
Perhaps it didn’t matter if Lumiere truly existed. What mattered was that it was possible to exist like him. To be light, even alone.
To protect, even without applause. She didn’t want to become a legend. She wanted to be strong enough not to need one.
But that evening, at fourteen, she was just Celine. A girl who looked at the sky more often than at people. And who loved the stars because none of them smiled out of convenience. They were there. Immense, distant, silent. Like she sometimes wanted to be.
Sylus watched her from afar, recognizing every gesture. When she glanced at the ceiling—she wanted to leave. When she moved her left ring finger—she was uncomfortable. When she bit the rim of her glass—she was about to say something sharp. He was the only one who could interpret her.
The only one who could truly approach her. Sylus was the calm in Celine’s storms. Celine, the spark in his silences.
They had secret words, tacit understandings, gestures not taught but discovered only by growing up together.
They weren’t mistress and butler. They were Sylus and Celine. Period.
But, for the first time, it was he who felt exposed.
She looked at him from afar and smiled. One of those smiles that seemed to say: I know you better than you’re willing to admit.
That smile alone shifted the axis of the room. For a moment, every conversation seemed more muted. Every light, softer. No words were needed: a glance was enough between them. It had always been that way.
But even the most intimate silences are, sooner or later, interrupted.
Kael moved between them like an actor in a theater too small for his ego.
He was charming in the way poorly restored statues are: surface beauty, but with details gone wrong.
As dictated by the fashion among the nouveau riche of the Eastern Sector, his mother was living proof—more silicone than genuine smiles.
Kael bore that legacy: a face too polished for his age, eyes too attentive, a smile too ready. His voice seemed polished every morning with a damp cloth.
His amber-colored suit was impeccable but reeked too much of cologne and narcissism. Celine tolerated him.
Only out of duty. The son of an important political ally and—according to many—“a fine catch.”
But to her, he felt like a jacket meant for another body: tight, uncomfortable, inappropriate.
The young man offered her a glass, tilting his head slightly.
“Rare champagne. You know, they don’t pour it for just anyone. Only for those who know how to… savor it.”
Celine smiled politely, but her gaze wavered, uncertain.
Inside, though, she suppressed a sigh.
The young man’s voice was smooth as counterfeit gold. His suit perfect, his tie loosened with calculated nonchalance.
He had the air of someone who never accepts a no and calls it charisma.
“And you? Do you savor, Miss?” he asked, leaning toward her.
“Or are you one of those girls all rules and rigor?”
Celine’s fingers barely brushed the rim of the glass. But she didn’t have time to respond.
An elegant hand—glossy black glove, long fingers—slipped between them. Sylus.
He took the glass from her hands with a slow, measured gesture.
He didn’t look at the boy. He looked only at Celine.
“The Young Lady has already toasted. Three times, if I’m not mistaken. And she skipped dinner.”
He placed the glass on a passing tray with the ease of someone entitled to do so. Then he offered her a small fork with a tiny portion of vegetable caviar on an algae cracker.
“Something more… substantial.”
With a brief glance at Kael, his tone turned sharp as thin glass:
“If you want to make an impression, at least choose a wine worth remembering. Not one recycled from the bottom of your family’s cellar.”
A spark of complicity in his eyes. She lowered her head, suppressing a smile. It wasn’t just relief. It was gratitude.
With Sylus, no words were needed: a gesture, a glance was enough. And amid the gilded noise of the estate, he always knew where to find her.
It was so easy to relax when he was there.
Kael raised an eyebrow, trying to regain control.
“Always so attentive, eh, butler?”
His voice now carried a sharper edge, less assured.
“Do you also play babysitter, on top of being a lapdog?”
Sylus turned slightly toward him, his ruby eyes steady. No anger. Just precise calculation.
“I merely ensure certain invitations… don’t escalate.”
A pause. Then, with a slow smile:
“It must be difficult, I suppose, when your charm requires alcoholic props. But I imagine for someone chasing trophies, balance and respect were never the priority.”
Kael paled slightly.
The jab had struck with surgical elegance, like a needle slipped under the skin.
Sylus turned back to his young mistress. He looked at her with composed seriousness, but his eyes held something softer.
“Finish this. Then, if you’d like, I’ll bring you a white lyra juice. It’s fresh, sparkling… and almost the same color as champagne. Plus, it’s free of artifice. A rare thing around here.”
As he spoke, he raised an eyebrow slightly. An almost imperceptible gesture, meaningless to others.
But Celine recognized it instantly: it was their signal, born in childhood, when they mocked adults without anyone noticing.
It was Sylus’s way of confiding that he was having fun, that their complicity was still intact.
She nodded gently. Her smile was tiny. But genuine. Kael, for the first time, said nothing.
He stood there, hands empty, his smile glued to his face, while Sylus moved away with a silent step, like a velvet shadow.
He could have dismantled him in three words. But Céline didn’t like men who marked their territory. And he always wanted to be worthy of her gaze.
To many, Sylus Onychus was intimidating. Too calm, too perfect, too distant. Like a reflective glass: you could see yourself in him, but not through him.
After that evening, Sylus understood that his father wasn’t just preparing him to take his place as head butler, but to bear the weight of an entire legacy. A symbol of discipline. A silent vow.
That memory should have remained etched in his mind like iron on skin. But something, over time, had slipped away. Now, in place of duty and rigor, there was her. The guilt—if it could be called guilt—carried her scent. Her eyes, her voice, invaded his mind in the worst moments.
When he sought relief, when his body took command and his hands moved on their own.
And he would have wanted her there. Under his fingers, under his lips.
Her warm breath imagined at his ear, her skin sliding beneath his fingers, her flesh gripping him.
Just thinking of it made the rhythm fierce, desperate, as if he could truly reach her. Stronger, more furious.
Thoughts that thrilled and repulsed him at the same time, as if he were desecrating something.
Until the pleasure erupted, staining everything. Staining what he was meant to protect. A moment of vertigo, of sweet annihilation.
He looked at that skin, wet with his own fluids, and felt guilty. As if his desire had tainted her, profaned her. As if, in possessing her like that, only in fantasy, he had betrayed her. Betrayed his code. Betrayed himself. And yet, despite the disgust that bent him, he knew it would happen again.
It was the only way he had to express those feelings that, though forbidden, burned within him with an untamable force.
Even the worry he felt for her—that constant unease, like a slow, imperceptible crack—slipped inside him, digging deeper. The persistent fear that she might get hurt.
The certainty that he would follow her anywhere, even at the cost of losing, little by little, his father’s teachings. Sylus had learned that reality could be harsher than dreams.
He saw again the fourteen-year-old girl from that evening: Celine, defying etiquette with a dark dress and a gaze sharp as glass, the spark of a Hunter already alight in her.
But as she approached now, the woman of today—harder, more scarred, yet unmistakably her—smiled at him with that sweetness that disarmed him.
She slowly slipped off her silk scarf, a veil steeped in her scent, which enveloped him like a summons.
“Tarnath, right?” she murmured, folding the handkerchief with a care that seemed a tribute to his rigor.
Sylus nodded, his heart gripped by a thread weaving past and present, devotion and longing.
Notes:
Thanks for reading “Tarnath”! Hope our fave “survivors” got you hooked. Every kudos, comment, or random thought you drop is a spark that keeps this story glowing. I’m obsessed with this tale, and yeah, the worldbuilding kinda ran away from me—it was supposed to be simple!
Sneaky shadows are lurking, though. Catch ya in the next chapter with more secrets and a tighter thread.
Big hugs!
Kal_eido on Chapter 1 Tue 22 Apr 2025 05:45AM UTC
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Mikiko_Nebula on Chapter 1 Tue 22 Apr 2025 07:19AM UTC
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Kal_eido on Chapter 1 Tue 22 Apr 2025 10:07AM UTC
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