Chapter Text
You woke before the sun, the city’s morning hush broken only by the low hum of the purification system above your bed. Your apartment glowed with a calculated serenity: high ceilings, pale gold drapes that shifted like liquid with the faintest breeze, floors polished to a cruel shine. They’d called the building a “sanctuary for the discerning,” which really meant it was built like a vault for beautiful things—things meant to be admired, not touched.
Your left arm pulsed, sore, a dull echo of last night’s argument. The bruise had bloomed on your bicep in the shape of Everett’s grip, a perfect thumbprint in mottled indigo against your skin. You let your hand hover over the mark and called up your magic. The telltale green shimmer flickered to life, starting as a sting, then spreading warmth beneath your skin. It felt like prying up a bandage: small pain, then relief. You watched the color leach from the wound, the purple dissipating into memory. Within moments, it was as if Everett had never touched you at all.
Except you remembered. You always remembered.
You peeled off the silk pajama top—crushed periwinkle, a gift from Everett—and shivered at the cold rush of conditioned air. In the bathroom, you faced your reflection, seeking evidence. No bruise now. You tied your hair back, exposing your neck, and counted the freckles on your collarbone while the water heated in the shower. Anything to keep from thinking about last night.
Breakfast was a ritual. You’d learned the choreography as a child: measure, whisk, pour, plate. The kitchen sparkled, every surface gleaming, every tool lined up with geometric precision. Everett liked to say you made “art out of routine,” but you knew it was survival, turning monotony into meditation.
You set the table for two, arranging cutlery with surgical care. Eggs, softly scrambled. Toast, sourdough, sliced thin. Sliced apple, fanned like cards. You even poured his coffee before he arrived, filling the mug three-quarters full—any more and he’d say it was “careless,” any less and he’d ask if you were trying to starve him.
He arrived on cue, his hair wet from his post gym shower, face already a mask of polite fatigue. Everett always looked like he belonged in a magazine: sharp jaw, amber eyes, sleeves rolled to show off the sigils on his arms. Today’s suit was dove grey, the lapels barely brushed with navy, because he had a meeting and that meant “subtle authority.” You knew his entire wardrobe as well as your own.
“That blouse again?” He didn’t look up from his phone, but the faint curl of his lip told you everything. “You know I prefer the blue one.”
You smoothed the hem of your blouse, suddenly conscious of how it clung to your ribs. “I can change.”
He let his phone drop to the table with a deliberate thud. “No, it’s fine. We’re not seeing anyone important this morning.” He sipped his coffee, considered you for a long moment. “But for tomorrow night, please? The banquet with your parents. They always comment when you wear dark colors.”
You nodded, focusing on the trembling of your hands as you reached for your own glass. “Of course.”
He set down his mug. “I just want them to see you at your best, you know.” The words sounded sweet. If you’d never heard them before, you might have believed him. “We’re lucky, you and I. Not everyone’s given this kind of opportunity.”
You remembered the first time your parents told you about the engagement. You were thirteen. You’d gone to the garden behind the manor and dug your hands into the dirt until your fingernails bent backward, just to feel something that was yours alone. “We are,” you agreed, swallowing the taste of bile.
He smiled, dazzling as always, and leaned across the table to touch your hand. His skin was ice-cold from the morning run, his grip just a shade too tight. “You’ll be ready at seven?”
“Yes, Everett.”
He kissed your knuckles—a gesture so choreographed it no longer felt like anything at all—then rose from the table, collecting his tablet and briefcase in one motion. “Don’t forget, the caterer needs final numbers by noon. And they asked about the wine. I said you’d choose something appropriate.” He paused at the door, perfectly silhouetted. “Make it a good day, darling.”
The lock whispered shut behind him, and you exhaled.
———
You filled the silence with work. Emails, phone calls, calendar blocks. Your mother’s messages arrived hourly, escalating in urgency: “Do you have the seating chart?” “Your father prefers the Amber Room.” “Remember to thank the Board for their donation.” They always phrased it as gratitude, never obligation. You’d grown up learning how to mold your words into gratitude, too.
By noon, you were exhausted and restless. That’s when you retreated to your favorite place: the garden. It was the only thing Everett allowed you to keep, as if tending living things was an acceptable vice for someone of your soul type. The rest of the apartment was pristine, but the sunroom was riotous—verdant, dense, alive. The air inside shimmered with humidity and the faint, medicinal scent of growing things.
You knelt beside the propagation table and pinched off a basil sprig, feeling the leaves spring back between your fingers. Your magic moved of its own accord, coaxing new roots from the stem, bright green tendrils unfurling in the damp soil. You liked to imagine the plants remembered you, that each touch was a conversation. This was the only place you could be completely yourself: sleeves rolled, hair undone, dirt streaking your palms.
You lingered there, letting the minutes pool around you, pretending you didn’t have to go back inside.
The afternoon faded into gold, then blue. You watered the last of the orchids and wiped your hands on your jeans, careful to leave no trace before Everett’s return.
You didn’t know that, across the city, something had already begun shifting. That tonight, in a bar you’d never dared to enter, a monster’s gaze would catch yours and hold it. That somewhere in the city’s shadowed veins, freedom had started growing wild, the roots pushing through concrete, whether you wanted them or not.
You pressed your forehead to the glass, the city stretched out like a jewel box before you, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to hope.
———
That night, Everett did something so wildly out of character that it left you adrift for a good half hour: he invited you out.
Not just out, but out-out, like the kind of night you used to sneak into when you were in school, the kind where you wore too much eyeliner and pretended the thump of the bass was your heartbeat. He called it a “date,” but you could smell the test in it before you’d even said yes. You spent the afternoon agonizing over what to wear, going through all the blue blouses you hated, finally settling on the one he’d named as his favorite, the one that made your soul feel like it was shriveling in on itself. You left your hair down, anyway.
The bar was new, glossy, loud as hell, full of the kind of people who talked with their hands and wore labels you’d only ever seen in magazines. The lighting was dim, everything lit by inverted glass bulbs that reminded you of glowing insects. Even the menu was cocky: cocktails with names like “Soul Sunder” and “Ambrosia’s Kiss.” You felt about as out of place as a pothos in the desert.
Everett’s friends were already there, crowded around a booth that reeked of old money and new cologne. You recognized most of them from previous company parties or the disastrous New Year’s Eve gala last winter. There was the blonde with the shrill laugh, and the guy who only wore black turtlenecks, and the twin brothers who finished each other’s sentences like it was a party trick.
You slid into the seat beside Everett, letting him guide you with a possessive hand on your lower back. The others barely acknowledged you at first—just a nod, or a raised eyebrow—but after the first round of drinks, you became their favorite topic. Or rather, your body did.
“Ev, you never said your fiancée was such a looker,” turtleneck guy leered, licking sugar off the rim of his glass. “I always pictured, I dunno, something more… clinical.”
The blonde chimed in: “Right? I’d kill for those cheekbones.” She reached out as if to touch your face, thought better of it, and instead swirled her drink in a way that felt faintly threatening.
You kept your mouth shut, smiled when they looked at you, sipped your cocktail as slowly as possible. The drink was called a “Greenlight,” and it tasted like mint and battery acid. It was less about taste and more about impact.
The conversation was viciously dull, until it wasn’t.
“Can you believe they let those things in here?” one of the twins muttered, nodding toward the bar.
You followed his gaze and saw a cluster of skeleton monsters at the far end of the room. Four of them: two tall, two short. The tallest of the bunch wore a collar around his neck and the other tall one wore a large orange hoodie. The shorter two were decked in red and blue, one in a black jacket over a red shirt and the other in a blue hoodie.
You looked away quickly, not wanting to draw attention.
“They should keep to their own side of town,” turtleneck guy grumbled, dropping his voice as if it were a secret. “Or, hell, maybe just go back underground.”
Everett leaned in to you, his lips nearly brushing your ear. “Ignore them,” he said. “They’re trying to provoke a reaction.” You nodded, wishing you could disappear.
“Want another drink, babe?” he asked, already signaling for the server.
You shook your head, but he laughed it off and ordered you a second Greenlight anyway. “Come on, loosen up for once.” The glass arrived, the condensation cold and slick in your hand. You forced yourself to drink, hoping the blur would make the night pass faster.
The longer you sat there, the more you realized how little anyone actually cared about you. The conversation flowed over and around you, like you were a prop in Everett’s arm, an accessory to complement his suit. They joked about old university scandals, trashed other families, gossiped about monster “incidents” in the news. It was all so trivial, and yet the words hit you like stones.
At some point Everett got up to greet a business associate at the bar, leaving you stranded with his friends. You watched him go, watched the way his body language shifted—charming, confident, the perfect predator. You envied the certainty of it, the easy power.
As you nursed your third drink, you felt your head go light, your pulse a step too slow. You blinked, and the world seemed to tilt. The voices around you faded into a wash of color and noise. You wondered what would happen if you just slipped away, right now. Would they notice? Would they care?
The skeleton monsters were still at the end of the bar. The one in the black jacket and gold tooth caught your eye for a split second, then grinned, wide and sharp, like he knew every secret you’d ever tried to bury.
You looked away, heart hammering in your chest, and realized Everett had been gone a long time.
You were alone, adrift in the expensive dark, your vision blurred and your tongue thick.
You closed your eyes, just for a moment, and listened to the city’s pulse, waiting for something—anything—to change.
———
You lost time, somewhere between the fourth Greenlight and the fifth. The world telescoped into noise and color, your movements blurring around the edges. Everett was gone—vanished into the upper deck with a slick-haired business contact, leaving you stranded among strangers who cared only for the reflection of their own laughter. The room spun, the lights split into doubled halos, and you needed air.
You didn’t remember standing up, just the lurch of your stomach as you tried to cross the sticky floor toward the restrooms. That’s when it happened: your shoulder clipped something solid, almost metallic, and a cascade of cold liquid burst across your arm, soaking your sleeve in whiskey and soda.
“Hey,” a deep voice rumbled, an octave below the music. “Careful, doll.”
You turned, mortified, and came face-to-chest with him: the skeleton from the bar, the one with the collar and rust-red eyelight. Up close he was even taller—taller than any human you’d ever met. His smile was all angles with a flash of gold, somehow predatory and amused at once.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you stammered, trying to shake the droplets from your hand. “I wasn’t looking—”
“Yeah, I noticed,” he cut in, but his tone was more teasing than cruel. “Guess they don’t build ‘em sturdy in your circles, huh?”
You wanted to shrink into the floor. “Let me—let me get you another. I mean—” You fumbled for your wallet, your face burning.
He laughed, low and lazy, a sound that hit somewhere deep in your chest. “Nah, darlin’. That’s my line.” His skull tipped, surveying you with an intensity that felt physical. “You’re shivering. Come on, sit down before you hurt yourself.”
You should have run—should have made an excuse, slipped back to the booth, waited for Everett to return and scold you for wandering. Instead, you found yourself following the skeleton to the end of the bar, where he flagged down the bartender with two fingers and ordered you both another round.
You could feel the weight of the room shift as you sat beside him. Humans glanced your way, some sneering, some smirking; monsters watched with the blank patience of animals. You pretended not to notice.
“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? No offense, but you look a bit out of place.” he asked, voice syrupy with sarcasm.
You hesitated. “My fiancé likes it here.”
He whistled, long and sharp. “Yikes. Poor you.”
You surprised yourself by laughing. “You have no idea.”
He slid the fresh drink toward you, not breaking eye contact. “Try me.”
You sipped—sweeter than before, much more up your alley, the alcohol burning pleasantly. “It’s an arrangement,” you confessed. “Our families—” You trailed off, unsure why you were telling him this. Maybe it was the way he listened, like nothing else mattered. Maybe it was the rust-orange fire in his eyes.
“Arranged, huh.” His tongue traced the edge of his gold fang, thoughtful. “I always wondered if that was a human thing, or just a rich people thing.”
“Both,” you said. “I didn’t get much of a say.”
He tapped the rim of his glass with a bony digit. “Nobody does, not really.” Then, softer: “I’m Mutt, by the way. Nice to meet a green soul.”
You paused in surprise. “How’d you know?”
“I have a good sense for these things.” He grinned. His gaze flickered over your face, lingering on your eyes. “What’s your name?”
You almost lied—almost gave him the one Everett used, the one that sounded safe and dull. But the words slipped out, the name your grandmother used when she brushed the dirt from your knees in the garden.
He repeated it, rolling it around in his mouth, making it sound new. “Pretty,” he said, and you felt your pulse throb at your throat.
You talked. About nothing at first: how the drinks here were overpriced, how humans and monsters both had the same taste for vice. Then about the city, the way the buildings made you feel both trapped and infinite. He told you about the mountain, how the crystals in the old caverns lit up like stars when the magic was right. He said his brother could cook, but only if you liked everything burned to a crisp. You told him about your plants, your secret garden, and how you could make basil grow twice as fast if you whispered to it.
He listened. Really listened. And when you stumbled over a word, he’d tilt his head, waiting, patient, like he had all the time in the world.
At some point, your hands touched. You didn’t know who started it—maybe you reached for the same glass, maybe he was helping steady you—but his fingers were cold and hard, smooth as marble, and you didn’t pull away.
The rest of the bar fell away. Everett didn’t exist, not in the charged air between you and Mutt. Even the noise faded, leaving only the pulse of music and the green spark dancing in your chest.
He leaned in, close enough that you could count the hairline fractures across his cheekbone. “Wanna get out of here?”
You nodded before you even thought about it.
He led you through the back door, past the kitchen and the cloud of hot, greasy air. The night outside was cold, the city’s breath fogging in the alley. He offered his jacket—dark and fur-lined, warm from his body—and when you shrugged it on, it felt like armor.
You walked, neither of you talking, the silence companionable. His apartment was close: a converted loft on the edge of the warehouse district, high ceilings and exposed pipes. The place was messy in a way that felt lived-in, the couch battered but clean, the coffee table littered with old books and cans of cheap beer.
He watched you as you took it all in, his grin softening into something almost shy. “Sorry for the mess. Wasn’t expecting company tonight.”
You smiled, warmth spreading through your limbs. “It’s better than a mausoleum.”
For a moment, you were afraid that your joke fell flat, that you offended him. Then he laughed—really laughed—and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. “You’re all right,” he said, voice gone rough.
You stood there, suddenly nervous, unsure what came next. He crossed the space in three strides and cupped your face in his hands, thumbs resting at your jaw. His bones were cool, but his touch made your skin burn.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, not as a tease, but a genuine question.
“Yes,” you breathed.
His mouth was a hard line, cool and surprisingly soft against yours. You had no idea what kissing a skeleton would feel like, but it felt natural, felt right. He kissed like you were sure he fought: direct, unrelenting, dangerous. You melted against him, let him tilt your head, felt his hands slide to your waist. When he finally pulled back, your breath came in ragged bursts.
“I don’t do this,” he whispered. “Not with humans.”
A grin spread across your face, fueled by adrenaline. “Me neither.”
When he next kissed you, you were surprised he could manifest a tongue. He didn’t just kiss you—he conquered. His mouth moved against yours until you forgot how to breathe, until you stopped remembering that you were supposed to. In some distant, reasonable part of your brain, you recognized how wrong this was, how foolish, how you’d engineered the perfect scandal. But the rest of you was hungry in a way you’d never understood before. You’d been trained to suppress hunger, to iron it flat, but this was different. This was the need to bite, to devour, to be devoured.
He picked you up, hoisting you with laughable ease, and there was a crash as your shoes knocked an empty can to the hardwood. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he relished the noise, the discordant evidence of your existence here. Your back hit the wall and he was kissing down your throat, teeth scraping, and you wondered if he could feel your pulse fluttering under the thin skin there. You wondered if he wanted to bite you.
He didn’t—just pressed his jaw there, inhaling, savoring the moment like he was recording it for eternity. You clutched at his shirt, and the fabric bunched between your fingers. His hands moved with an honesty no one had ever offered you before, working the buttons of your blouse open, careful with the trembling of your body, but never asking if it was okay. He knew. You both did.
You didn’t remember leaving your shoes or your bag somewhere in the entryway, but they must have fallen off, because you were barefoot when he scooped you up again, carried you to the couch, and set you gently onto the cushions. Mutt’s bones pressed through the soft lining of his gloves as he trailed his hands up your thighs, parting them with a confidence that made you feel seen—desirable—instead of inspected. He watched your face, waited for a single sign of regret. There was none.
You pulled him closer and bit his clavicle until he growled—a real, animal sound that buckled your knees, even though you were sitting. He responded by pinning your wrists above your head, his grip unyielding but not cruel. The fear was gone, replaced with something raw and essential. For once, you weren’t performing. For once, you didn’t have to rehearse your own reactions.
You let him take control, and it was intoxicating. No careful choreography, no calculated moves. Just hunger. His mouth found yours, and you sucked in air like you were surfacing from underwater. He explored you, mapped every inch of skin he could reach, and you arched into the touch, desperate for more. Hands, hips, teeth—all of him was want, and it ignited something that had lain dormant inside you for years.
He undressed you with shameless efficiency, but always slow enough to let you feel the power in every motion. You liked how there unrestrained Mutt was. Most monsters you’d encountered in passing tried to soften their presence, make themselves smaller in polite company—but not Mutt. He relished the spectacle, the way his size took up the whole room, the way he could pick you up like you were nothing but breath and water. You let him, and it was terrifying, and it was perfect.
He ran his hands down your bare sides, thumbs grazing your ribcage as if he were counting each one, memorizing what made you fragile and what made you real. His mouth moved over your skin, kissing a jagged path along your collarbone, pausing every so often to leave a mark only you would ever see. You pulled at his jacket, wanting more exposed bone, more contact, and he obliged, shucking it off and tossing it somewhere behind the couch. Without it he was massive, all angular lines and careful violence. You wanted him to ruin you, and from the look in his eyes, he wanted it just as badly.
The night narrowed. Time folded in on itself, blurry and liminal, like the air before a storm. You let go in a way you never had before, riding wave after wave of sensation until you forgot you were meant to be afraid. Only when you felt your voice echoing off the high ceiling did you panic—just for a flash—but Mutt’s hands on your jaw gentled you, anchored you, and you let yourself fall into the moment.
You lost yourself, over and over, in his hands and his mouth and the way he made you feel wanted. When it was over, you lay tangled together, the city’s lights spilling through the window, painting both of you in gold and shadow.
For the first time in months, you didn’t feel hollow. You felt seen.
You closed your eyes, and let yourself sleep.
———
You surfaced slowly, like drowning in reverse. Sheets tangled at your legs, unfamiliar weight pinning you in place. The world tasted of cotton and stale alcohol, light filtering through windows that belonged to no apartment you’d ever lived in. Your head pounded—a slow, insistent throb that pulsed with every heartbeat—and your tongue was dry as bone.
You reached for the edge of the bed, fingers groping at emptiness before you remembered: last night, the bar, the cold kiss of rain on your skin, the hard, careful hands on your hips. Your pulse quickened. Mutt. The memory hit in flashes: his mouth on your collarbone, the scrape of his teeth, the way he laughed when you called him an asshole and then kissed you harder. His magic—rust-red, hot and alive—left ghostly fingerprints on your skin.
You glanced sideways, expecting judgment or maybe even anger, but found him asleep, jaw slack, arms folded under the pillow. Without his eyelights burning, his face looked softer, almost serene. He snored faintly, a rumble that vibrated through the mattress. The sight made your chest tighten with something you couldn’t name.
You sat up, wincing as your body protested every movement. The blouse Everett liked was crumpled on the floor, buttons torn. You blushed remembering how you’d begged Mutt to rip it, how you’d wanted to obliterate anything that belonged to Everett, even if it was just fabric. You found your bra under the couch, your purse wedged between two cushions. Your phone buzzed in your hand—a black, angry wasp of panic.
Five missed calls.
You scrolled through the notifications, each one more desperate than the last. Where are you. Call me. This isn’t funny. Come home now. The last was a single word, all-caps: ANSWER.
The cold fear in your stomach eclipsed the hangover. You knelt to tie your shoes, hands shaking so badly you almost cried out. The urge to run was overwhelming, but you forced yourself to stand, to breathe, to move quietly.
You hovered at the threshold, stealing one last glance at Mutt. He slept on, one arm outstretched toward your side of the bed, fingers splayed like he was reaching for something just out of reach.
You slipped into the hallway, closing the door with a careful click. The morning air was raw and unkind, a slap of reality that left your eyes watering. The city was awake now—traffic, voices, the endless machinery of expectation—and you were just another hungover girl in last night’s clothes, running home to someone who would never forgive you for this.
You mapped your excuses as you walked: got sick, left early, phone died, sorry, sorry, sorry. But no lie could explain the heat still burning in your chest, or the phantom ache where Mutt’s hands had held you.
Somewhere behind you, a monster woke in an empty bed, reached for a ghost, and found nothing but cold sheets.
You wondered if he felt as hollow as you did.
You kept walking.