Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The summer heat had been relentless throughout the day, and even with nightfall, it refused to loosen its grip. The bayou, however, thrived in it—alive with the constant drone of cicadas, their cries weaving between the deep, low croaks of bullfrogs, and the rustling of unseen creatures. The thick and heavy air was saturated with the scents of wet earth, moss, and the slow decay of the deep South. And beneath it all, a scent lingered—sweet, metallic.

Blood.

Alastor strolled through the dense undergrowth with an effortless, almost lazy stride, his polished shoes sinking slightly into the damp ground, causing him to click his tongue in mild annoyance for a moment. He hummed as he walked, a cheerful tune eerily contrasting to the limp figure slinging over his shoulder. The man’s arms hung aimlessly, fingers brushing against Alastor’s back with every step, his body swaying like a ragdoll with each shift in weight.

Nestled between towering cypress trees, half-swallowed by the swamp, stood a small, forgotten shack. Weathered wood, sagging porch, a single lantern swaying in the humid breeze—unremarkable to most. But Alastor knew better.

The man—unconscious but still breathing—was dead weight, but Alastor carried him with ease. Adjusting his grip, he stepped onto the creaking wooden planks of the porch and fished a key from his pocket. The old lock clicked, the door swinging open with a slow, reluctant groan.

Without ceremony, he dropped the body onto the floorboards with a dull sound. He barely glanced at the man before turning to the trapdoor in the corner of the room. With a flick of his wrist, he unlatched it and let it swing open, revealing a set of worn stairs descending into darkness.

He paused.

Then, with a grin splitting across his face, Alastor grabbed the man by the collar and sent him tumbling down into the shadows below.

Stepping onto the first creaking stair, Alastor descended after him, voice light and cheerful, humming still.

The hidden cellar had a much more comfortable look than the upper floor. The shack above was little more than warped wood and peeling paint, but as Alastor dragged his victim along a small, darkened corridor, soon they arrived to a large room that had been perfectly adapted into someone’s living quarters.

An antique bedside lamp rested on a small table, its amber glow casting long, soft shadows that danced across the walls. The cellar was far from the crude, damp pits one would expect—it had been arranged, deliberately and with care. A richly woven rug, old but still vibrant in colour, softened the rough wooden floor, its intricate patterns still retaining its original beauty despite its old age.

A vintage radio perched on a narrow shelf, its polished dials catching the dim light, waiting in perfect stillness—ready, at a moment’s notice, to fill the silence with the crackling strains of jazz or a lively broadcast. Against one wall, an elegant and inviting chaise lounge rested, its upholstery slightly worn but still plush, a relic of a more refined era.

Beside it, yet another small round table held an elegant tea set, its porcelain delicate and pristine. The arrangement was perfect, the cups and saucers meticulously placed, as if expecting company.

In the other corner of the room stood a bed—the frame was sturdy, iron-wrought with delicate curving details that spoke of another time, another place. Plush pillows and thick, luxurious blankets lay atop it, neatly arranged yet bearing the subtle signs of use. A faint trace of perfume clung to the fabric, something floral, something lingering.

Something rotten.

On one side of the bed lay what remained of a human body. The blood, now dark and dried, had seeped deep into the sheets, staining them in uneven patterns before dripping sluggishly to the wooden floor. The stench of decay was thick but not fresh—this was no recent kill. There was little left to suggest the remains had ever been a person. Flesh had long since been stripped away, leaving only a skeleton, its bones marred by deep grooves, gnawed and splintered by something—someone—with impossibly sharp teeth.

Alastor exhaled, a long-suffering sigh of annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Really, my dear?”

A presence stirred behind him. A tall, shifting shadow.

Soft footsteps, just too close, accompanied by the barely perceptible scrape of nails against the wooden walls. The air thickened, electric with a quiet, predatory amusement. Alastor turned his head slightly, catching the gleam of pitch-black eyes peering from the darkened corridor where he had come from. Watching. Waiting.

She was smiling.

“Oh my, have I finally been once again graced by the presence of New Orleans’ most beloved radio star?” Her voice was warm, rich with honeyed mockery. She took another step forward, and the dim lantern light caught the edges of sharp teeth, glinting. “And all I had to do was wait three weeks for him to remember I exist.”

Alastor didn’t answer immediately, instead dragging his victim further into the room, positioning the fainted body carefully in the middle of the rug. His gaze flicked briefly to the doorway. And there she stood.

Rosie was a magnificent specimen of what Hell had birthed. Imposingly tall, her figure was both graceful and predatory. There was an elegance to the way she carried herself, her posture always flawless, a perfect balance of nobility and deadly intent. Her features were almost human, almost soft, yet they carried an unmistakable, otherworldly allure—a beauty far too sharp, too striking for the mortal world.

But it was her eyes that drew Alastor's gaze, as they always did.

Huge pits of darkness, wide and deep, like twin voids that threatened to swallow all that looked into them. Yet there was something alive within them—something animated. A gleam that was not just hunger but a certain mischievous delight, a playful fire that made her seem as though she were forever on the edge of laughter, ready to pounce. They were eyes that held all the promise of danger and decadence in equal measure.

A creature born of Hell, yet somehow, in her own strange way, elegant.

A kindred spirit, someone who matched his own wickedness. Alastor smiled sharply as she began to approach him, her own smile matching his with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

“I do apologize for keeping you waiting, Rosie dear,” he said smoothly, his tone light. “But I’ve been rather busy. The audience simply demands more of me. One can’t disappoint the fans.”

“Oh, I know,” she replied, her eyes glinting as she circled him. “I’ve been an assiduous listener of your show. After all, you didn’t place that radio here just for my random entertainment while you’re away, did you? You like me to tune in.”

Alastor let out a soft chuckle, but there was a playful mockery in his voice as he spoke, his eyes flickering to the grisly scene laid out on her bed. “Not that you need my help to entertain yourself, of course.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on the body remnants. “I can see you’ve been... quite busy.”

Rosie tilted her head, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “What can I say?” she purred, her voice turning sugary sweet. “A girl’s got to eat. And after three weeks without a proper meal, I had to take care of business myself.”

“Indeed,” Alastor said, his voice smooth, tinged with sarcasm. “Your urges must have been quite great if you couldn’t restrain yourself from devouring your meal on the bed and making such a mess. You’re vicious, Rosie. Am I to assume this is your small act of revenge for my absence? Do I get the honour of cleaning that up?”

Rosie smiled, a gleam of amusement in her dark eyes. “How impressively sharp! This is why I like you so much.”

Alastor’s lips curled into a smile, a mixture of amusement and resignation. As if he could get mad at her.  “Your pettiness is incredible.”

The man on the ground groaned softly, the sound interrupting their lighthearted exchange. His shifting form reminded them both that the situation at hand was far more pressing. Rosie’s eyes lit up, a delighted gasp escaping her lips as she looked down at him.

“Oh, Alastor!” she exclaimed, practically purring in excitement. “You brought a live one this time?”

Alastor’s grin stretched wider, but there was a sharp edge to it as he drew closer, his tone dripping with mock concern. “I’m not sure you deserve it, darling,” he teased, his smile a provocative challenge. “After all, you’ve been playing without me.”

Rosie’s eyes glinted with mischief as she matched his grin, unbothered by his teasing. “Oh, I most certainly deserve it, dearest.” She cocked her head, her voice laced with playful venom. “After all, I wasn’t the one who accidentally summoned me almost three years ago and still has no idea how to send me back to Hell, forcing me to live in the human world.”

Alastor’s expression soured for a brief moment, the irritation flickering beneath his usual mask of calm. “You will never stop using that argument against me, will you?” he scoffed, his words sharp but tinged with reluctant amusement.

Rosie’s grin only grew wider, her eyes mischievous. “Unless you can conjure a portal to Hell right here, right now, no, I will not.” She bent down, her lips brushing lightly against his forehead in a teasing, almost affectionate gesture, making her point with a provocative, sweet innocence that only added to the tension between them.

Alastor stood still for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he watched her, though his lips curled into a smile once more. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in the words—only the softest trace of admiration.

 
The man stirred, consciousness slowly returning as the atmosphere around him grew heavier with every passing second. Rosie, however, wasn’t interested in offering him a peaceful death—she wanted to see him plunged into the deepest terror, her terror, before she consumed him alive.

Alastor didn’t need much convincing. How could he ever deny her anything? Especially when her request was so wickedly delicious. He sank into the chaise lounge, making himself comfortable as he observed her, the glint of delight never leaving his eyes.

Rosie loomed over the man, her presence overwhelming as he writhed and struggled, desperately attempting to break free. But it was futile and with a single, fluid movement, she had him caged.

For a brief, fleeting moment, the man’s wide, panicked, begging eyes locked onto Alastor’s, filled with a primal fear. The terror was raw, palpable, and in that instant, Alastor’s grin grew even wider—manic, delighted, delirious. His features twisted into an expression of pure glee, as though he were witnessing something sacred, something that only he and Rosie could truly understand.

Rosie’s fingers curled around the man’s throat, lifting him off the ground with effortless strength. His legs kicked wildly, uselessly, as high-pitched shrieks tore from his throat, echoing off the walls—desperate, pleading. But in vain. No one would ever hear him scream.

Alastor observed the scene with idle amusement. If she didn’t hurry, the poor fool would likely soil himself from sheer terror. And he certainly wasn’t cleaning that up.

Before that could happen, Rosie put an end to his suffering—if one could call it that. Her jaw unhinged with an inhuman stretch, a grotesque display of her true nature, before she lunged forward, sinking her teeth into his skull with a sickening crunch. Bone shattered beneath her bite, and his shrieks dissolved into wet, gurgling sounds as blood flooded his throat.

Then, silence.

The only noise that remained was the rhythmic, content sound of Rosie chewing.

She sighed in satisfaction, stretching like a cat after a hearty meal, her fingers lazily wiping at the blood streaked across her lips. “That was delicious,” Rosie declared, glancing at Alastor, who was still lounging on the chaise, one leg crossed over the other.

He was watching her, as he always did while she fed—eyes sharp, lips curled into that ever-present grin, but his gaze lingered just a little too long.

“Why, my dear,” she purred, stepping closer, “you always look so… enthralled when I eat. One might think you enjoy watching me like this.”

Alastor chuckled darkly. “Rosie darling, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were fishing for compliments. Should I be praising your technique?”

She smirked, crouching in front of him, resting her elbows on his knee in a way that was far too familiar, far too close. "I’d settle for honesty," she whispered, her breath still tinged with the metallic scent of blood.

Alastor’s grin twitched, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he plucked a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket and flicked it open with practiced ease. "You are a vision," he admitted, dabbing a stray drop of blood from the corner of her mouth, his voice almost reverent. "But I do wish you’d be neater with your meals. This is, after all, a shared space."

Rosie’s laughter rang out, delighted. "Oh, come now, that is what bothers you? Not the screaming, not the carnage—just the mess?"

Alastor sighed dramatically. “Given that it’s always the same person taking the role of a glorified maid cleaning after you…”

With a satisfied hum, Rosie leaned back, stretching her legs out. “I trust you'll handle the cleanup then?”

Alastor scoffed, glancing at the ruined bed, the blood pooling into the wooden floorboards. “Absolutely not,” he declared, rising to his feet. “Not this time. I’ve already done my part by bringing dinner. You can deal with the leftovers.”

Rosie huffed, pouting lightly but with an evident twinkle in her dark eyes. “And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

“Oh, I am—to a fault. But even a gentleman has his limits, and I simply refuse to handle... waste management.”

Her pout grew into something more theatrical, but with a lazy flick of her wrist, bones and scraps of flesh that remained began to vanish, dissolving as though the darkness itself was feeding on the remnants.

Alastor watched, raising a brow. “Are you quite serious?”

She grinned, shrugging lightly. “You never asked before."

Alastor rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. Oh, she was as delightfully entertaining as she was frustrating sometimes. "Rosie, darling, I do believe you enjoy watching me suffer."

“Poor you,” she teased, almost cooing, drawing close once again, her voice dripping with enjoyment. “As if you don’t secretly enjoy it yourself.”

For a fraction of a second, the space between them felt charged, the weight of two predators circling something unspoken. Then, as always, Alastor laughed, bright and easy, as if shaking off something dangerous.

"You are terribly amusing," he admitted, adjusting his tie. “Now, if you’re quite finished, and because I know you will soon start bringing this subject up yet again, I am asking you to stop holding that little summoning mishap over my head.”

Rosie giggled, tilting her head as if in thought. “Mmm… I’ll consider it. Once you actually figure out how to send me back.”

His grin remained, but for the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

Rosie caught it. And oh, how she loved that. Still, she kept her actual thoughts to herself.

“Have you made any progress on that front?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Not yet,” he admitted smoothly, perhaps a bit too hastily "but I shall inform you the moment I do.”

She hummed, neither satisfied nor entirely dissatisfied with that answer. A part of her would miss him terribly when she returned to Hell. But on the other hand, she knew one thing for certain—no matter how long it took, he would follow.

After all, Alastor had long since burned any bridges leading to Heaven.

Chapter Text

If his own nature compelled Alastor to live on the edge, he would much prefer it to be on the edge of his own blade—ideally as he plunged it deep into the flesh of someone he deemed unworthy of sharing the same air as him. But sometimes, they fought back.

As he pushed open the door to his lonely apartment studio, a rare misstep nearly sent him stumbling. He took a sharp breath, exhaling slowly, his priority clear: leave no traces, nothing that could lead back to him. His gaze dropped to his lower abdomen, where a deep red stain had begun to spread across his shirt despite his best efforts to staunch the bleeding. He needed stitches—that much was obvious. But seeking medical attention would invite an onslaught of questions he had no interest in answering, questions that could put him in a dangerously precarious position.

He closed the door, and for a moment, it was just him and the quiet darkness of his apartment. He preferred it that way, there was no need for domestic warmth. He’d had it once, long ago, and the one who had made any place feel like home was gone from this world. Despite her best efforts, he had still turned out bad to the bone. Perhaps it was for the best that she had passed in the end.

He staggered toward the bathroom in the dark, navigating the space with practiced ease—there was no need to turn on the lights. Only when he reached the small, tiled room did he flick the switch, the harsh glow casting sharp shadows across his face. His smile remained, but it was utterly devoid of joy; cruel, sharp, and furious. The only solace he could find was the certainty that the miserable wretch who had dared to stab him had suffered until his very last breath. His fingers found the cabinet handle, pulling it open to retrieve a bottle of alcohol. His mind raced. He had a needle and thread somewhere in his room… didn’t he?

Alastor turned off the bathroom light and turned toward his bedroom door, slightly ajar. A sliver of dim light from the streets outside stretched across the floor, shifting with the movement of the curtains he had forgotten to close. The fabric billowed softly in the breeze, an eerie, rhythmic sway that made the shadows in the room dance.

For a moment, he simply watched, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened space beyond the doorway. Something felt… off.

Slowly, he stepped into the room, his movements deliberate despite the dull throb in his side. The sounds of the city—distant chatter, the occasional honk of a car—became muffled as he reached for the window and pulled it shut with a quiet sound. The sudden silence settled heavily around him, thick and unnatural.

No… not exactly wrong.

A bizarre sense of familiarity washed over him, settling deep in his bones. The air in the room felt different, charged, like the moments before a radio crackled to life. Yet, the circumstances were not correct.

His fingers twitched, his grip tightening around the bottle of alcohol still in his hand. He knew this feeling—being watched. But no one was supposed to be there.

Slowly, his gaze swept across the room, sharp and searching. The faint glow of the streetlights bled through the curtains, casting shifting shadows over the furniture. The air barely stirred.

And then—

In the darkest corner of the room, where the light barely reached, a figure sat waiting. Two gleaming eyes, black as the void, watched him with an amused glint. Then, a voice, smooth as silk, and twice as dangerous, broke the silence.

“My, my… You’re looking a little worse for wear, darling.”

For a split second, his heart exploded with adrenaline, and a cold wave of panic surged through him. Panic and thrill. He acted on instinct, slamming the curtains shut with a swift, harsh movement that made him wince in pain. The wound in his side throbbed in protest as he reached for the table lamp, his fingers trembling for a brief moment.

What was she doing there?

How was she there?

He spun around, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened room again. His heartbeat in his chest like a war drum. There was no mistake—the presence, the eyes, the voice. It was unmistakable.

Rosie.

The room suddenly felt too small. The walls seemed to close in as her soft laughter echoed in the dim light.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the lamp tightening as he forced himself to steady his breath. He couldn’t show weakness. Not now. Not to her. Especially not to her.

“Rosie dearest!” his voice overly animated but with a cutting undertone, his heartbeat faster in a rhythm he couldn’t quite control. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I wasn’t expecting company tonight.”

Rosie’s silhouette remained in the corner, her form almost ethereal in the dark. Her eyes glinted with a predatory gleam, and her lips curled into a smile that sent a pleasant thus unwelcomed shiver down his spine. Alastor reached for the lamp switch and turned it on.

She was sitting on the edge of his bed, her tall figure now even more evident. Her black eyes were glued to his bleeding wound that he immediately tried to dismiss.

“It’s just a scrape, nothing more.”

“You’re badly hurt.”

“Nothing I can’t handle. More importantly why are you here?”

Rosie smiled but there was genuine concern on her gesture. He hated it. She shouldn’t be concerned, why would she be concerned?!

“Always so stubborn...” she sighed, rising gracefully from her seat. In the confines of his bedroom, her height was even more pronounced—his head barely reached her shoulders. He looked up, scowling, but beneath the glare, a single thought gnawed at the back of his mind: Was she going to eat him?

“Will you at least sit down?” Rosie asked, her tone almost indulgent. “And perhaps let me help you?”

Alastor growled something unintelligible but begrudgingly lowered himself onto the bed. The faint scent of damask rose clung to the fabric—a lingering trace of her presence. She had insisted on it days after he had summoned her, claiming that as a lady, she required certain comforts. And so, he had made sure Rosie got the finest. He would never admit—not to her, not to anyone—that she was the most marvellous thing he had ever laid eyes on.

Slowly, he began to undo his shirt, every movement sending sharp, burning pain through his side.

“Alastor, I asked you a question.”

“I heard you,” he muttered, jaw tightening.

Rosie clicked her tongue in annoyance as she knelt before him. “Let me see.”

“Rosie, darling, I’d much prefer if you didn’t. Quite frankly, I’m not in the mood to become one of your snacks.”

“Oh? So there are times when you are in the mood?” she teased, smirking.

Alastor shot her a sharp look, but she only chuckled. “Relax, dearest. If I wanted to eat you, don’t you think I would have done so already? I do have some self-control.” She leaned in slightly, her dark eyes gleaming. “Although, I must admit… you smell delicious. Even more than usual.”

Slowly, she helped him remove his shirt. Under the warm glow of the room, the deep wound glistened red and fresh, the scent of blood quickly mingling with her perfume. His vision swayed for a moment—he was getting lightheaded.

“That doesn’t look good,” Rosie remarked, tilting her head as she examined the injury. Then, with a small smile, she added, “I know what you’re going to say—I should’ve seen the other guy.”

Alastor chuckled, though it was strained. “Am I that predictable?”

“Sometimes.” She met his gaze, amusement flickering in the depths of her dark eyes. “But don’t worry, I like you nonetheless.”

Rosie traced a thin finger along his bloodied skin, slow and deliberate, before bringing it to her lips. She tasted it, savouring the metallic tang as her dark eyes remained locked onto his.

Alastor's gaze sharpened, something unreadable flickering beneath his usual grin. His breath hitched for just a second—so brief it was almost imperceptible, but she caught it.

His eyes darkened. Alastor had always been a creature of control. Control over his voice, over his smile, over the carefully woven persona he had built. Everything about him was deliberate, calculated, sharpened to a razor’s edge. And yet, as Rosie tasted his blood, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips, something inside him wavered.

It wasn’t just the act itself—it was her. The way she deliberately held his gaze, her pitch-black eyes gleaming with amusement, curiosity… and something else he refused to name. The way her tongue darted out, slow and purposeful, savouring, as if this was all some sort of indulgence.

He should be offended. He should be on guard. And yet, his body didn’t stiffen in defence—it reacted. His pulse, despite the blood loss, picked up ever so slightly. His breath came just a fraction slower, as if waiting for something. His fingers twitched, itching to reach out and—

No. Absolutely not.

His grin stretched wider, but his eyes betrayed the flicker of something else. Irritation, he told himself. That’s all it was. Irritation that she was toying with him, playing her little games as if she had the upper hand. As if she could affect him in any way beyond the confines of their arrangement.

Rosie’s smirk deepened, as if she had heard his thoughts and found them amusing.

“You taste…” she mused, tilting her head in faux contemplation, “quite good.”

He scoffed, leaning back slightly despite the dull ache in his side. “I should hope so. I’m hardly comparable to the bastards I bring you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling. I’ve tasted better.” Her voice dipped, playful, teasing—almost intimate.

His fingers twitched again.

He should tell her to leave. He should roll his eyes, feign disinterest, make some sharp remark about her theatrics, and move on. But instead, he simply watched her, his expression unreadable, his thoughts a tangled mess of defiance and something far more unwelcome.

“Are you actually going to do something, or is this just an excuse to taste me, dear?” Alastor asked, his voice laced with a dark amusement but also tension underneath.

Rosie giggled softly, savouring the taste on her finger one last time before she bit it—just enough to draw blood. Alastor watched with morbid fascination as her finger began to bleed. It wasn’t red like his. No, hers was black. Pure, inky black, oozing like liquid night from her pale skin.

She leaned over him then, her form towering, but never fully encroaching—just enough to make her presence impossible to ignore. The air thickened with her intoxicating scent, a blend of roses and something darker. She was magnificent. Her gaze never wavered from his, a challenge in her eyes, before she presented her bleeding finger to him.

“Go ahead,” she murmured, voice low and inviting, “You’re curious, aren’t you?”

Alastor’s gaze flickered to the black blood pooling at the tip of her finger, the dark substance shimmering under the light. A strange, almost magnetic pull gnawed at him, his instincts screaming at him to take what she offered, to taste the forbidden. His fingers twitched once more, and despite every rational thought screaming against it, he felt a stir in the pit of his stomach—a mix of hunger and something darker, something he couldn’t quite name. Or maybe he refused to.

“You want me to?” Alastor’s voice was cool, though his tone was threaded with something far less controlled. “Or is this some elaborate game, Rosie?”

Her smile was sharp, her eyes glinting with amusement, but there was something deeper behind it.

“Why not?” she purred.

His jaw clenched as he tried to ignore the way her words seemed to linger in the air, sinking deep into his chest. It was too tempting—too reckless, too dangerous. And yet, there was something liberating about it. Something that made him feel... alive in a way he had never experienced before.

“You’re playing with fire,” he muttered under his breath, but his gaze remained locked onto her finger.

“Then burn,” she whispered back, her voice a velvet threat. “You might just like it.”

The air between them seemed to crackle with tension, electric and heady. His heart raced, his pulse quickened, and despite himself, Alastor’s lips parted slightly, drawn toward her blood. He could feel the weight of her stare, the undeniable pressure of her presence pressing down on him.

In that moment, Alastor was acutely aware of the dangerous game they were both playing—one that could end in fire, or worse, in something that he was not willing to confront just yet.

And yet, as his gaze finally lowered to her bleeding finger, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Sluggishly, his fingers closed around her wrist, his grip firm but not forceful, as he mirrored her earlier action. Without breaking eye contact, he brought her blood to his mouth, the dark, liquid velvet on his tongue.

The taste hit him like a wave, rushing to his brain with a dizzying intensity. It was intoxicating—like heavy velvet, rich and smooth, swirling with a dark sweetness that flooded his senses. His breath caught in his throat as the sensation rippled through him, a dangerous, thrilling euphoria, more exquisite than anything he’d ever tasted before.

He could feel his heart race, his pulse pounding in time with the intoxicating rush of her blood. It was as if he’d fallen into a spell, every rational thought slipping away as he succumbed to the overpowering allure of her presence—and her taste. He never thought he would crave anything as much as this. But there it was, overwhelming him, threatening to drown him.

Rosie inhaled deeply, savoring the moment, her eyes fluttering shut as a delighted smile spread across her delicate features. For a brief second, the silence between them was thick, almost tangible. Then, with a swift and decisive movement, she pulled her finger away from his eager lips, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Without missing a beat, she made a simple gesture, her blood swirling through the air like liquid darkness before it landed on his wound, lacing it with an eerie, graceful flow. It seeped into his flesh, sealing the injury with unsettling ease.

"There," she said with a satisfied look, stepping back slightly. "Good as new."

Alastor, however, did not share her satisfaction. Despite his wound being healed, his gaze lingered on her, dark and brooding. There was a shift in the air—one that was hard to deny. She had given herself, allowed him to taste her blood, and he barely had time to indulge in the heady pleasure of it. His senses were still tingling from the remnants of the taste, his mind clouded with something that wasn’t quite rage, nor hunger, but something else entirely.

For a split second, Alastor almost resented her for pulling away so quickly, for denying him the indulgence he had unexpectedly craved. His fingers twitched, as if still reaching for her, but he quickly forced the thought away, replacing it with the harsh edges of control he prided himself on.

Rosie’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if she had sensed the flicker of his frustration. She smiled, a knowing, almost playful expression that only served to rile him more.

“What is it, darling?” she asked, her voice smooth with a teasing undertone. “You don’t seem happy.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” he snapped, though the words felt hollow, as if he were trying too hard to convince both of them. His gaze darkened as his thoughts churned violently within him. The familiar sharpness of his emotions—his pride, his control—was slipping away, unraveling in a way he could not allow. And yet, the more he tried to grip it, the further it seemed to slip from his reach.

He hated it.

He needed control. More than anything else, he needed to hold onto that control, especially when faced with something that made his heart beat just a bit too fast.

“If you say so.” Rosie’s voice was light but it held a knowing edge that sent a chill down his spine. She took a deliberate step back, her eyes dancing with mischief but also something… soft. Which was even worse.

She didn’t wait for a response, as if dismissing him entirely, and for a moment, he thought he might snap at her. How dare she? She knew exactly what she was doing. The teasing distance, the way she’d drawn away as if she had no stake in what had just happened. As if she had not offered herself to him.

Rosie’s gaze flickered back to him, a slight, almost imperceptible smile tugging at her lips. The air between them seemed to thrum with tension, and for the briefest moment, Alastor could have sworn that the flicker of a challenge danced in her eyes.

He wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. Or worse—what he wanted from her.

Her scent still lingered in the air, and despite the anger that churned in his chest, there was a strange kind of pull—something deeper than mere attraction—that held him in place.

She was a demon, after all. And he was not someone who let his guard down. Yet here she was, stripping him of the control he so fiercely clung to, like peeling away layers of a carefully constructed façade.

“Well, onto our next topic of discussion,” Rosie said, her tone casual, but there was a glint in her eyes. “Any progress on how to send me back?”

Alastor blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. That was why she was here, wasn’t it? Of course, it was. He should’ve known.

“You invaded my house to ask me that?” He couldn’t help the amusement that seeped into his voice, his usual charm sliding back into place. “Why, darling, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re eager to leave me.”

Rosie leaned against the doorframe, her smirk playful but sharp. “Actually, no. I came because I sensed something was off with you.”

Alastor’s brow furrowed slightly at her words.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she continued, her voice carrying a strange mix of amusement and something genuine. “From the moment you summoned me, we’re bonded. I felt that something was wrong with you and decided to check. Now I know what it was.”

Alastor watched her closely, his lips twitching as if he might say something, but she spoke before he could.

Her smile was almost provocative, a dangerous glint dancing behind her dark eyes. “The truth was due to concern, but since I know you’ll detest the truth, I’m going to say it was more opportunistic instinct. After all, keeping you happy is in my best interest.”

Her words hung in the air, layered with an unsettling blend of truth and teasing, and Alastor’s grip tightened involuntarily at the reminder of their unspoken, yet undeniably real, connection.

“About your progress…” she insisted.

“Nothing conclusive just yet,” Alastor replied immediately, his voice smooth, though there was an edge to it.

“I see,” Rosie said, her gaze fixed on him with an unsettling calm. “Perhaps I should accompany you next time you go on your research excursions.”

Alastor couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “And let other people see you? Rosie, as amusing as it would be to watch others die of fright, I have a reputation to uphold.”

She gave him a sly smile, unfazed. “I have my ways to be unseen. Or maybe I’ll just possess someone.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, a sharp edge creeping into his voice. “No possessing others. That would just be a mess.”

Rosie tilted her head, her smile almost too sweet. “Then I’ll tag along through other means.”

Alastor paused, a dark curiosity stirring within him as he raised an eyebrow. “What means? And wouldn’t you rather—”

“I would rather return home, thank you very much.”

His heart skipped a beat, a surge of unexpected irritation flashing across his chest. Oh. So she would rather return than be with him? He found himself unable to mask the sting of those words. No, this couldn’t be. She couldn’t be so quick to leave.

He had grown used to her, to her presence, her teasing, her unsettling charm. She was his constant, his… companion. And as far as he was concerned, Rosie was not going back to Hell anytime soon. She was to be with him as long as he lived, no matter how much she claimed otherwise.

Don’t be too hasty, darling, he thought to himself, a flicker of possessiveness creeping into his chest. You’re not going anywhere.

Chapter Text

The air was thick with the scent of sulphur and smoke. And death—but that was a constant in Hell. No one paid heed to the ever-looming demise that hung over their heads. It would come, eventually.

Rosie stepped onto her porch, fishing for her keys as she prepared to enter her home. Her primary concern was the fresh blood staining yet another brand-new dress, despite her careful efforts to keep it clean. But, as always, what should have been a simple visit to her parents had taken a turn for the worse. Chaos and mayhem ran rampant through the streets of the Cannibal settlement—just as they always had.

Despite Queen Lilith’s best efforts to keep them satisfied and under control, Hell was simply too vast for her to be overseeing at all times. The moment her attention slipped, the turf wars reignited. The Cannibals were insatiable, and they knew they were blessed with their Queen’s favour. They had been the first to pledge allegiance to her, and though Lilith tried to conceal it, they remained her most indulged subjects. Not without reason, of course. For all their voracity, the Cannibals were also fiercely loyal. It was no secret that their presence in the Pride Ring was solely by Lilith’s decree. Without her intervention, the Gluttony Ring would have long since been overrun by a horde of ravenous Cannibals.

The house was dreadfully quiet. As the door creaked open, time itself seemed to pause—like a gaping mouth waiting to swallow her whole. A cold, heavy feeling settled in her stomach.

“Louis?” she called, but no answer came.

Her brows knitted together in a slight frown. Her husband was usually home by now. In fact, at this hour, he would be in the living room surrounded by his so-called partners—or whatever that pathetic, weak-minded flock of fools fancied calling themselves— drinking their overpriced liquor and debating politics with all the finesse of an infant mishandling a toy.

Rosie stepped inside, calmly removing her coat and hat before glancing toward the living room, confirming its emptiness. She sighed, a small smile gracing her lips—peace and quiet, for once. But then, a faint rustling reached her ears—the sound of paper being handled, pages turning with a deliberate, unhurried rhythm, coming from their shared bedroom. Their nuptial bower, her own private purgatorium.

The walk through the long, darkened corridor separating the bedroom from the rest of the house felt eternal. Every second stretched as Rosie made her way to the entrance. Everything seemed normal—until she glanced left and saw Louis standing near her vanity, a drawer open, papers clutched in his hands, others already scattered across the floor.

She stopped. Said nothing. He said nothing. The silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Her eyes flicked over him, waiting for the inevitable outburst.

Louis finally raised the papers, shaking them for emphasis.
“What is this?” he demanded.

“My papers,” she replied coolly. “That you snooped through.”

“Don’t play games with me, Rosie. This—this is information on the entire Cannibal settlement! Are you trying to usurp me?!”

She arched a brow. “Usurp you? In what?”

“As leader of the north side! Why else would you have records on—” he glanced down at the pages, brow furrowed in disbelief. “I—I don’t even know what half of this is, but trade routes and key resources ratios seem like awfully important things to be keeping track of!”

Rosie sighed, slow and measured. “Very good,” she said, voice laced with mock approval. “You’ve managed to reach a correct conclusion—yes, it is important. Just not for the reason you’re accusing me of.”

“Then what is it??” Louis snarled, his grip tightening around the papers. "You do realize that if I catch even the faintest whiff of disloyalty coming from you, you're dead? You got that?!"

Rosie laughed. A sharp, mocking sound that cut through the air like a blade.

“Oh, what a brilliant plan,” she drawled, crossing her arms. “Kill me, and you’ll have my entire family after you. Not to mention, you’ll lose every bit of funding keeping your pathetic, delusional bid for power afloat.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “You think you hold the reins, Louis? Playing king of the north side, as if you have what it takes to control it.”

His jaw clenched, but she didn’t stop. She stepped closer, just enough to watch the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“I tried,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “So very hard. To love you. To make this marriage something more than a hollow obligation. But you—” she exhaled, shaking her head, a bitter smile ghosting her lips. “You never once gave me an ounce of respect let alone love.”

Louis’ face twisted, but he said nothing. And in that silence, Rosie knew—whatever fragile illusion of trust had remained between them had finally shattered.

“These are plans for conquest, yes—you got that part right.” She took a step forward, her gaze unwavering, ablaze. “But I aim higher than you Louis. I don’t want the north side.” A slow, sharp smile curled her lips. “I want it all. The entire Cannibal settlement. And I will have it. I will become an Overlord, and under my rule, my people will thrive.”

Rosie woke to the sound of voices drifting up from the street below, the bustling noise of New Orleans mixing with the low hum of morning activity. Her head throbbed slightly, a remnant of the dream that clung to her like a distant memory. She had had it again—the dream where Louis discovered her secret plans. The dream where she had been forced to kill him, devouring him afterward, securing her freedom and her future as a widow. A happy ending.

She lay still for a moment, letting the reality of the dream fade as the sounds of the street filtered in. The weight of what she needed to do, of what she was willing to sacrifice, was ever-present.

Rosie’s plan was brilliant, but each step she took had to be calculated carefully. She was so close now, closer than she had ever been to making her ambitions real. She would gain the trust of the people, form alliances that would eventually turn the Cannibal Settlement into a unified force.

Unlike the brute force tactics that many Demons in Hell preferred, Rosie knew that raw power wasn’t what she needed to achieve her goals. Many Demons rose through violence, claiming souls with their fists, intimidation, and bloodshed. While some were clever, deceiving and scheming to collect souls, most Demons simply lacked the patience or the intelligence to pull off such tactics. Rosie, however, was different.

She had no interest in trading blows or fighting in the traditional sense. That kind of violence was wasteful, and she had far better use of her time. Her mind was her weapon, and she preferred the subtle approach—one that allowed her to manipulate the system from the inside out.

Living in the Cannibal Settlement, Rosie had seen firsthand the endless struggle of her kind—the constant battles for power, the endless turf wars. She was tired of it. The settlement, divided by conflicting factions, was stagnating. The potential was there, but no one had the vision or the leadership to unite them.

But she was ready to change that. Under her leadership, the settlement would no longer be fractured. It would become one—stronger, wealthier, thriving. She would create a society rich in resources, both material and spiritual, where no one had to scrape by in constant struggle.

She would make them better, and they would flourish under her reign. No longer would they be victims of circumstance. Rosie had the intelligence, the charisma, the patience, and the ambition to make it happen. And she was willing to do whatever it took to see her vision realized.

However, it wasn’t just power she sought—it was legitimacy. Rosie had found a loophole. In the brutal politics of Hell, power was traditionally measured by the number of souls one could claim. The more souls, the more power. But Rosie realized that if she gained the support and vote of her people, if they willingly chose to place their fates under her rule, she could technically become an Overlord without ever needing to fight or claim souls the traditional way.

Her power would not come from within, not from consuming souls. No, her power would be external—it would come from the collective will of the people who followed her. They would be her strength, and in return, she would offer them a new future. A united Cannibal Settlement, a prosperous society where they could thrive and grow, not just survive.

This loophole also meant that Rosie was untouchable in ways no other Demon or Overlord was. If they tried to strike her down, they would gain nothing—no power, no souls, no advantage. She didn’t have the kind of power they could absorb upon her death. She wasn’t like the others, bound by the traditional rules of conquest. If she died, nothing would be gained, nothing could be taken from her. It was a power built on the trust and loyalty of those who followed her, a foundation that no one could steal from her, and no one could break.

She would become an Overlord, not through brute force or manipulation, but through the vote and the will of her people. And when she did, the Cannibal Settlement would no longer be a fractured, struggling mess. It would thrive, and so would she.

But then Alastor had inadvertently summoned her. And for the past three years her plans got put on hold.

Rosie stirred lightly, pulling the blanket over her arms as the cold air nipped at her skin. It was never hot enough for her. She could never seem to get truly comfortable in the human world, not when her own was so full of fire and brimstone. The weight of the blankets was an almost comforting contrast.

Suddenly, she felt a warm hand brush a strand of hair away from her face, delicate fingers grazing her cheek, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. She smiled softly, her eyes fluttering open, the soft light of the room illuminating Alastor’s face. He was sitting up against the headboard, already awake, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You are the worst nurse I’ve ever heard of,” he said, his tone light but teasing. “Who falls asleep before their patient does?”

She blinked at him, still drowsy, but her smile didn't fade. “Now you’re my patient?” she asked, voice thick with lingering sleep. “Last night you were very adamant about not letting me help you.”

“And you were very emphatic about not leaving me alone for the night,” he shot back, the playful edge never leaving his words.

She chuckled, sitting up slightly and adjusting the blanket around her. “Thank you for letting me sleep in your bed,” she said, softly, revealing the genuine gratitude behind her words.

Alastor raised an eyebrow. “The other options were the sofa, which you’re definitely too tall for, or the floor,” he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re welcome.”

Her smile grew as she sat up fully, propping herself on an elbow to look at him more closely. She had to admit, there was something oddly comforting about this strange arrangement between them. There was an undeniable sort of... intimacy in their interactions, even if it was still cloaked in teasing and banter.

“Do you have work today?” she asked.

Alastor didn’t look at her immediately, but she could tell by the way he sat, slightly rigid, that he was already thinking about the next task, the next bit of business to handle. He finally met her eyes, the playful gleam still in them but tempered with something else—something sharper.

“In an hour,” he replied, his lips curling into a teasing smile. “Can’t miss my radio slot.”

“Of course,” she replied dryly, her brow quirking. “The ever-important radio slot. How could I forget?”

Alastor chuckled at her tone, a sound that had become familiar to her over time—rich, deep, but with an edge to it. However, Rosie knew that the radio would always be a constant in Alastor’s life. The show was his platform, his domain, the place where he controlled the narrative. Where his voice, his charm, commanded the attention of everyone who tuned in.

Rosie’s gaze softened for a moment, her mind drifting back to the many times she had listened to his broadcasts in the past. Human entertainment was amusing enough, but Alastor’s voice, smooth and commanding, had always have a strange pull on her.

“You’ll be great, as always,” she murmured, settling back against the pillow, the quiet of the morning wrapping around them like a lull in a song.

Alastor’s smirk widened at the praise, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stretched with languid ease before slipping out of bed, the warmth he’d left behind already fading. Rosie watched as he strode toward the wardrobe, fingers dancing over fabric before selecting his usual attire. Even in these simple morning rituals, there was something oddly rehearsed about him—every movement smooth, deliberate, as though he were forever performing, even in the absence of an audience.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and soon, the soft rush of running water filled the silence.

Rosie exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling. The bed felt colder without him, but she ignored that thought as quickly as it came.

He returned after a while, fully dressed, his usual grin in place as he adjusted his tie with practiced ease. A faint trace of steam clung to him, the scent of soap and aftershave lingering in the air, mingling with the ever-present hint of something darker—something uniquely him.

Rosie watched him from the bed “All presentable and ready to charm the masses, I see,” she mused.

Alastor chuckled, smoothing down his vest. “Naturally, my dear. One must always maintain appearances!” His eyes flicked to her, amusement dancing in their depths. “And you? Will you be spending the morning lounging about in my bed like some pampered housecat?”

She smirked. “Don’t worry, you’ll have your house back soon. I’ll return to the cellar.”

He approached her and took her hand, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to its back. His lips lingered just long enough for warmth to bloom against her skin. “Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone, my dove,” he murmured, his voice honeyed with amusement.

Rosie scoffed, though she couldn't quite smother the quiet giggle that escaped her. A faint warmth crept onto her cheeks—his effect on her, as always. She pulled the blanket higher, cocooning herself in its comfort but her hand found his cheek in a tender gesture. “Go before you make me regret letting you share a bed with me.”

Alastor placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “The gall. Speaking of my bed as if it’s yours. So demanding, dearest.”

She rolled her eyes, but before he could revel in his victory, her expression sobered. “Alastor. Now speaking seriously…” She hesitated for only a breath. “Can we go look for a way to send me back to Hell soon?”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, something dark. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, smoothed over by an easy smile.

Ah, yes. That.

He had already made his decision. Rosie was not returning to Hell. She couldn’t leave him, though she could never be allowed to know the depth of his resolve. Nor the why of it—not even he wished to look too closely at the reasons himself.

“Fine,” he said at last, his tone light, unconcerned. “I’ll take you when the time comes.”

And with that, he turned toward the door, whistling a jaunty tune as he left.

They settled on the following Sunday. Alastor insisted he needed time to make the necessary arrangements—Rosie couldn’t simply stroll through New Orleans unnoticed. Everything about her would draw attention like a ghost in broad daylight.

Fortunately, being an ascendant radio star had its advantages—connections in both respectable circles and those better left unnamed. The kind who dealt in things better left unspoken.

The most effective method of smuggling Rosie, he decided, was through the anonymous hiring of a funeral hearse, with her concealed inside a casket, avoiding the risk of drawing attention to them both. Alastor knew the right people for such discreet arrangements—people who asked no questions, required no explanations, and only cared that the payment was generous enough.

An envelope, left in a hollowed-out brick in an alley near Storyville, contained precise instructions and a generous sum of money. No names, no questions. The right people would see to it that his request was fulfilled.

On Sunday night, a modest black hearse would be waiting at a predetermined location. Rosie would slip inside an empty casket, traveling as “cargo” to Metairie Cemetery, where she would emerge unseen beneath the cover of night.

Alastor found the arrangement rather poetic—a demon in a casket, smuggled through the city like the dead. Rosie, however, was decidedly less amused.

“Charming,” she muttered after hearing the plan. “Dramatic, even for you. And how, exactly, do you expect me to fit inside a regular-sized casket?”

Alastor grinned, unrepentant. “Think of it as a grand adventure, dearest. Just squeeze yourself in a bit. Or, if you prefer, I could always toss you in a burlap sack and carry you over my shoulder. A much more dignified position for you, I’m sure.”

As planned, half an hour before the arranged time, Rosie found her casket waiting for her at the edge of the bayou, just as Alastor had instructed. She slid in, doing her best to make herself as comfortable as possible, her limbs curling into the confined space. At least Alastor hadn’t opted for a cheap casket. He’d gone to the trouble of getting a well-made one, the velvet interior soft against her skin, and the lid, though snug, wasn’t completely suffocating. Still, being confined to such a small space was hardly ideal, but she would endure it for the sake of their plan. Despite everything, Alastor was always surprisingly attentive to her well-being, in his own peculiar way. He had a strange habit of keeping a sharp eye on her, even when it seemed like he was more concerned with his own theatrics than anyone else’s comfort. And though he wasn’t forthcoming about his emotions most of the times, his actions spoke volumes, often in subtle ways—ensuring that her casket was well-made, making sure she wasn’t in too much discomfort was one example amongst many.

The hearse arrived on time, as expected—silent and solemn in the thick night air. The driver, a silent figure in the shadows, moved with practiced precision. Without a word, he opened the back of the hearse and expertly slid the casket into place, securing it with care as though the contents inside were far more valuable than they appeared.

Rosie barely shifted inside, the dim light from the streetlamps casting long shadows over her, but she was conscious of the slight creak of wood beneath her as the driver maneuvered with quiet efficiency. She could feel the weight of the casket shifting slightly as the vehicle started moving, a low hum vibrating through her.

The journey was long and uncomfortably still. Each bump in the road was a reminder of the precariousness of her situation—smuggled in a casket like some forbidden relic, hidden from the eyes of the city. The air inside the casket was thick with the smell of polished wood and something stale, but she stayed still, barely breathing as the hearse made its way through the winding streets. Her mind wandered, a mix of anticipation and frustration gnawing at her. She hated being confined like this. But there was no choice.

Outside, the city passed by in its usual fashion, unaware of the unusual cargo in its midst. The muffled sound of the wheels on the cobblestone roads was the only noise as the hearse continued its steady march toward Metairie Cemetery.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity for Rosie, she was dropped at the entrance of her destination. The hearse came to a slow stop, and the driver climbed out with a silent efficiency. He moved with practiced ease, lifting the back of the hearse without a word. The heavy lid creaked open, revealing Rosie’s casket nestled in the shadows, untouched and still.

Without a glance at the contents, he simply moved to the side, carefully unloading the casket from the hearse. Giving a final glance towards the road, he then disappeared back into the vehicle, leaving Rosie alone in the quiet of the night.

She remained motionless inside, waiting for him to drive away, her body pressing against the cold wood of the casket. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts a swirl of anticipation. She knew Alastor was somewhere ahead, awaiting her arrival. But the cemetery was vast, and the shadows stretched long in the dim light, hiding everything and nothing at once.

The sound of the engine revved up, quickly disappearing down the winding path leading back to the city. Rosie waited until all was still—just the whisper of wind through the old stone markers and the creaking of ancient trees. Then, with a quiet breath, she slowly pushed the lid of the casket open, sliding out with as much grace as the cramped space would allow.

Behind her, she heard footsteps—light, deliberate, almost playful against the gravel path. Rosie didn’t startle, but she straightened, glancing over her shoulder just as a familiar voice, filled with amusement, broke the stillness.

“I daresay, my dear, you make quite the elegant spectre.”

Alastor stood a few paces away, hands in his pockets, his ever-present grin gleaming in the dim moonlight. He looked entirely at ease, as if they were merely meeting for a pleasant evening stroll rather than conducting clandestine business in a cemetery.

Rosie sighed, brushing dust from her sleeves as she stepped fully out of the casket. “I’m glad this is so amusing for you,” she muttered, her tone dry. “At least you weren’t late.”

Alastor’s grin only sharpened. “Punctuality is a virtue, my dear," he quipped. "Especially when there’s a lady in a casket involved.”

She shot him a withering look, but it only seemed to delight him more. With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he motioned toward the shadowy path ahead, the towering mausoleums standing like silent sentinels.

“Shall we?” he purred. “The dead may rest, but we have business to attend to.”

Rosie gave him one last unimpressed glance before stepping forward. The night stretched before them, quiet and cold, but the weight of what they were about to do hummed beneath the surface—thick as the dark.

The path to the vault wound through the heart of the cemetery, a labyrinth of narrow walkways flanked by towering mausoleums and crumbling tombstones. The air was thick with the scent of moist earth and aged stone, the quiet punctuated only by the distant rustling of moss-draped branches swaying in the night breeze.

Moonlight spilled in fractured slants between the towering crypts, casting long, jagged shadows across the worn brick pathways. Some of the graves were adorned with wilting flowers, their petals bruised and curling inward, while others had long been abandoned, their marble faces weathered and forgotten. Rosie could feel the history pressing in around her—centuries of the dead slumbering beneath her feet, their presence lingering in the stillness.

She took a slow breath, letting the heavy air settle in her lungs. The atmosphere was perfect—ancient, forgotten.

She traced a finger along the weathered stone of a nearby crypt, her touch light, reverent. The cracked marble, the curling ivy, the eerie hush of it all—it was beautiful in its own macabre way. A place where time had lost its grip, where the living had long stopped disturbing the silence.

A slow smile curled her lips. “I must say, Alastor… you certainly know how to pick a setting.”

Alastor chuckled, his hazel eyes glinting in the dim light. “Why, thank you, my dear. I do have an appreciation for the finer things in life. Or should I say, the remnants of it?”

She smirked, casting another glance at the towering mausoleums around them. The overgrown pathways, the cracked stone angels with their faces worn smooth, the wrought-iron gates rusted by time—a place abandoned by the living, whispering of all who had come before, and all who would come after.

With an almost contented sigh, she turned her gaze back to the vault. “Let’s go,” she murmured. “Before I decide to linger.”

At last, they reached the edge of a sunken section of the cemetery, where a vault lay hidden among the most ancient resting places. It was a monolithic structure of darkened stone, its entrance marked by a pair of heavy, iron doors sealed with an intricate sigil. Unlike the rest of the graves, this one bore no name—only the remnants of an inscription too worn to read.

Alastor stepped forward, resting a hand against the door with a knowing smirk. “Here we are, dearest,” he murmured. “Home to knowledge better left undisturbed.”

“I’m still waiting for you to explain how being in a cemetery will help me return home.”

Alastor’s smirk deepened, but he remained silent for a moment, savouring the tension in the air. “You’ll see. Ladies first." he replied, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken secret. His hand gave the door a firm push, and with a creak that echoed through the still night, it slowly began to open.

As Rosie stepped into the depths of the vault, the door creaked shut behind her with a finality that seemed to seal her in. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of aged stone and something more ancient—an almost tangible heaviness, as though the very atmosphere had absorbed centuries of secrets. The dim light of the moon filtered weakly through the small, high windows near the ceiling, casting long shadows that danced like specters on the walls.

Alastor followed, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The crypt's stone walls closed in as they descended a narrow spiral staircase, the ancient stone worn smooth by countless years of passage. The air grew even more oppressive as they moved deeper into the earth, and the faint murmur of their footsteps seemed to grow louder, swallowing the darkness around them.

At the bottom of the stairs, the space widened, revealing the hidden library—a subterranean chamber carved into the very bones of the earth. Rows upon rows of ancient, leather-bound books lined the stone shelves, their spines cracked and yellowed with age. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows, creating a maze of shapes and forms that seemed to twist and writhe as if alive. The smell of old paper and ink mixed with the dampness of the earth, creating an atmosphere that felt more like a tomb than a sanctuary.

Rosie couldn’t help but glance around, the weight of the place sinking into her bones. There was something unsettling about this hidden library, as though the knowledge contained within its walls had been buried here for a reason.

Alastor moved past her with an almost reverent air, as though this was a place he had known intimately for years. "Here we are, dearest," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if the very walls demanded silence. "This is where the knowledge of demons is kept. If there is a way for you to return to Hell, it will be here."

Rosie took a step forward, her gaze sharp, her mind already working, feeling the weight of the centuries-old tomes surrounding her. "Let’s hope so…" she replied, her tone laced with a mix of wistfulness and determination. She began to scan the ancient shelves, her fingers brushing lightly over the worn spines of the tomes, each one a vessel of secrets long buried.

It didn’t take long for Alastor to begin presenting the vast array of books and scrolls he had meticulously gathered over the years. His fingers danced along the pages with a precision that bordered on obsession, the scent of old parchment hanging in the air like a heavy, forgotten memory.

"Here," Alastor said, his voice almost reverent as he flipped through one particular volume, revealing the intricacies of ancient binding spells, rituals, and forbidden incantations. "This one speaks of the rites necessary for a demon to return to their realm. I’ve tried them all, Rosie. Every last one of them."

He paused, giving her a pointed look as if the weight of those words carried more than just failure. "But none have worked. Not a single one."

Rosie’s brow furrowed, her attention now fully on him, the curiosity creeping in despite her wariness. "I see. I wasn’t expecting this to be easy, but… surely you must have found something that can point us in the right direction, no?" she asked, her voice cautious but laced with a subtle thread of hope.

His smile tightened, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. He continued flipping through the pages, the creak of old leather filling the room as he moved with an almost reverent haste. “I may have.”

Alastor’s fingers lingered on the page, his gaze flicking back and forth between the runes and Rosie, the weight of the moment settling heavily in the air between them.

“This ritual… It’s not very clear, but it speaks of a conduit. It’s a lead as good as any other, in my opinion,” he said, his voice steady but edged with that same undercurrent of excitement that always accompanied the unknown.

As she listened, Rosie’s heart tightened, a swirl of hope and suspicion creeping through her. The fact that Alastor seemed so willing to help, despite his reluctance in the past seemed a bit odd but if anything, he had a mercurial nature.

She leaned in slightly, her voice soft, almost hesitant. “A conduit… Do you think it will work?”

Alastor’s gaze flicked to hers, and he seemed to consider her question for a moment before responding. “Only one way to find out.”

Rosie exhaled slowly, letting the uncertainty slip away as she made up her mind. “Alright. Let’s do it. Alastor…”

“Yes, dearest?” He raised an eyebrow, his attention returning fully to her.

“If this works… I’ll miss you.”

Alastor scoffed lightly, averting his gaze from hers almost immediately, though there was a slight tightening around his lips that hinted at something unspoken. “Of course you will. My company is unparalleled, after all.”

Rosie smiled gently, a quiet warmth spreading through her chest despite the situation. She wasn’t expecting him to be sentimental about her potential departure, but deep down, she couldn’t help but harbour the almost certain belief that he would miss her as well—if only in his own peculiar way.

For a brief moment, there was a silence between them, one filled with the weight of everything unsaid. Rosie had known all along that returning to Hell would mean leaving Alastor behind, but now, with the possibility of returning home getting closer, she wasn’t sure if she was ready. A dull ache already settling deep within her at the thought of not seeing him for who knew how long. Yet, a part of her knew it was the right thing to do.

She turned her attention to the ceremonial table Alastor had prepared, her fingers brushing over the ritual items with a slow, deliberate motion. The tension between them hung thick in the air, almost tangible, as if even the universe itself were holding its breath. Each candle’s flickering light cast shifting shadows along the walls, and for a moment, Rosie hesitated, an unshakable feeling curling at the edges of her thoughts—something was off. But Alastor’s steady presence beside her, his voice smooth and certain, anchored her resolve.

Alastor’s fingers ghosted over the ancient text, his voice low and measured as he guided her through each step of the ritual. “Now, dearest, you’ll need to carve the sigil into your palm. A small price, I’d say, for the passage home.” His smile was light, playful even, but something in his gaze remained unreadable.

Rosie exhaled, steadying herself. The blade was cool against her skin as she traced the unfamiliar symbols into her palm, the sharp sting barely registering through the weight of her anticipation. A few drops of black blood bloomed, sinking into the sigil Alastor had already drawn on the stone table.

“Good, good,” he murmured, almost to himself. "Now, repeat after me."

She obeyed, her voice weaving through the air with an eerie resonance as she recited the ancient words. The candles flickered violently, the shadows twisting and writhing against the vault walls as the energy in the room thickened. Rosie felt it stir inside her, wrapping around her bones, pulling at her very essence—

Something was wrong.

The realization hit her like a cold shock to the spine. Her body felt too heavy, her limbs rooted in place as a sudden force coiled around her very being, tightening, binding. Her breath hitched, panic flashing in her eyes as she turned to Alastor—

“What—?”

He was watching her intently, his smirk still in place, but now there was no amusement behind it—only satisfaction.

“Alastor, what have you done?” Rosie’s voice wavered, a mix of disbelief and slow-rising horror. He had tricked her. She trusted him and he tricked her.

“Why, dearest,” he crooned, tilting his head as if savouring the moment, his smile widening into something almost maniacal. “I’ve simply ensured that you stay where you truly belong. With me.”

Her breath caught in her throat as the weight of his words settled over her like chains. The ritual—the sigils—the binding. It all made sense now, but far too late.

Her world came crashing down. She was bound to him. Irrevocably. Their black wedding.

Chapter Text

The hustler swore it was the finest quality, the bottle gleaming emerald beneath the dim streetlamp, casting fleeting flashes of light before Alastor hastily seized it. He tucked it into his coat, careful to avoid the gaze of anyone who might tip off the authorities. Absinthe, straight from France. And by God, he would need it.

He could already taste the sharp bitterness on his tongue, the fire cascading down his throat and the wicked fairy promising a night of delectable milky white fog. It was the kind of solace he craved—an escape from the tightening noose of consequences that seemed to be pulling around him with each passing day.

As if she would allow him any solace.

Rosie didn’t scream at him. Rosie didn’t get angry.

He expected resistance. something intense, something that would give him the rush of defending his decision, something that would prove to him he was right in his actions. He imagined her anger, her sharp words, her rage, oh so beautiful she was even when enraged, but it would give him the self-satisfaction of knowing he had done what was necessary. It would make her see that she needed him, and in the end, it would prove that she truly belonged by his side.

But Rosie didn’t offer any of that. After the initial shock, she simply stared at him blankly, an unnervingly calm expression gracing her features.

And Alastor had prepared for that moment in meticulous detail. He had studied the rituals, ensured the safeguards were in place, made sure that their binding spell would assure his self-protection. As a good and practiced radio host he also scripted his speech. He had practiced relentlessly in his mind, rehearsed his words, each one pounding in his head like a prayer recited enough times to become part of his tongue. But, faced with her disturbingly neutral expression, his well-rehearsed speech would feel hollow if he mentioned it.

His plan was simple: she had stay with him. He had bind her to him, and she would never leave.

She had once told him they were kindred spirits. At the time, he had scoffed at her romantic notions, dismissing them as fanciful sentiment. But deep down, Alastor had held onto her words. His apparent indifference and eternal smiles concealed—quite aptly—his tendency for deep, often overwhelming emotions.

Which he detested.

Feelings were exploitable weaknesses, vulnerabilities he had no intention of indulging. As far as he was concerned, his internal turmoil would remain hidden from others—buried so deeply that even he would refuse to acknowledge it.

He made her happy, didn’t he? He had done everything to keep her happy. What could Hell possibly offer her that he couldn’t provide? His devotion ran deeper than his mortal self—though he stubbornly refused to examine the reasons why.

No, Rosie couldn’t leave. The thought itself was intolerable. Unthinkable. He wouldn’t even allow himself to consider such a scenario.

Alastor turned away from the hustler after slipping the payment into his hand. Without another word, he stepped into the shadows of a narrow back alley, the muffled sounds of the city fading behind him. The damp air carried the distant notes of a jazz tune drifting from a club, but for once, he paid it no mind. His path was set, his grip tightened around the bottle in his coat, while his thoughts were already elsewhere as he moved through the winding streets toward his apartment studio.

The flickering streetlights cast long, restless shadows as he walked. His apartment, tucked away in a quiet corner above a defunct tailor’s shop, awaited him—his sanctuary, his stage, his carefully crafted world. But it was no longer just his.

As Alastor opened the door, he was met with the soft, flickering glow of a lone candle resting on the floor of the common area. The scent of a freshly cooked meal lingered in the air, mingling with the ghostly strains of a blues song playing from the gramophone. The singer’s doleful hums and moans wove through the room, his anguished slide guitar weeping in harmony—a sound both sorrowful and hypnotic, filling the space like a lingering spirit.

And there, sitting cross-legged beside the spinning vinyl, was Rosie. Her gaze followed its slow rotation, her expression unreadable, her voice a quiet echo alongside the song. The dim light cast elongated shadows against the walls, the atmosphere thick with something Alastor couldn't quite name—something that made the air feel heavier, more intimate, and utterly inescapable.

She was always there now.

“Took you a while,” she remarked, still watching the record spin, her voice carrying an almost languid amusement.

“Yes, well, it’s not like I can simply walk up to any store and ask for liquor,” Alastor replied dryly, shrugging off his coat. He loosened his tie and set the absinthe down on the table with a soft clink.

“I’m aware. You humans have some peculiar laws.” Finally, she turned to look at him, eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight. She gestured lazily toward the kitchenette. “I made some stew with the meat you had stored.”

Alastor paused, scrutinizing her with an unreadable expression.

Rosie let out a light chuckle. “Relax, darling, it’s not poisoned or anything. Quite frankly, you’ve been awfully skittish around me these past few weeks, and I have no idea why!”

Anyone who knew Alastor even slightly would attest to his vindictive nature. He nursed grudges like a mother would nurse her child, patient in his pursuit of retribution. Time was irrelevant—whether it took days, months, or years, he always settled his scores.

And yet, as vengeful as he was, he was beginning to understand that he was but an apprentice in comparison to Rosie. Sweet, warm, ever-smiling Rosie was a far more skilled torturer, weaving her quiet, calm torment with such deft precision that he found himself ensnared before he even realized it. She never needed to lift a finger, never resorted to cruelty—oh, no. Her revenge was far more insidious. It was in her constant presence, twisting his wish in the harshest manner.

Might as well have gotten furious with him. Anger, he could handle. Rage, resentment—any kind of fiery emotion—those were things he could deflect, twist, argue against. But after the initial shock had passed, Rosie simply accepted his trickery, his double-crossing with grace and a smile, as if nothing had happened. She never mentioned what he had done. And as the days stretched on, Alastor found himself wishing she would.

But he didn’t dare bring it up himself either.

Yet, despite her silence, Rosie was undoubtedly punishing him in her own way—by giving him exactly what he wanted, to the most exaggerated degree. She refused to leave his side. Without a word of explanation, she moved into his home as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She would appear at his radio booth while he worked, lurking in the shadows or blind spots where no one else could see her. Any darkened corner he turned to, there she was. Always there. Always watching. Always waiting.

Not a moment of peace. Not a moment alone.

Hadn’t he wanted her by his side? Hadn’t he made sure she could never leave?

Rosie was intent on granting his wish—and she was relishing every second of his agony, knowing just how much it tormented him. Private man that he was, Alastor now had nowhere to hide.

Her voice was like a soft, sweet melody, yet it had the bite of a thousand daggers when she chose to wield it. The way she toyed with him, always just out of reach, pushing him to the edge of his patience only to drag him back, forcing him to face the truth he'd been so desperately avoiding.

The way she challenged him—provoked him—was maddening, yes. But underneath the layers of frustration, a part of him couldn’t help but feel a twisted, perverse appreciation for it. She knew him, perhaps better than he knew himself. She knew how to peel away his facades, how to make him question every decision he had ever made. The fact that she could invade his thoughts, his space, without so much as lifting a finger—that was terrifying.

And yet… there was something darkly alluring about it.

The soft hums of the melody kept filling the room, the moans of the guitar bleeding into the quiet, like a whisper from another world. The mournful wail of the blues, the sorrowful strings, wrapped around his senses, drawing him deeper into the atmosphere. The slow, aching rhythm seemed to reverberate through the walls, each note a soft stroke of pain and longing, setting the air thick with tension. It was haunting, suffocating, and strangely fitting—like the very essence of the moment, heavy with unspoken words and desires, stretched to its breaking point.

Alastor took a long breath in an attempt to steady himself. Rosie, with her unreadable smile, watched him from her seat, her eyes never leaving him. He was the one who had bound her to him. He was the one who had insisted on keeping her close. And now, he was paying the price.

Alastor wasn’t hungry. Instead, he returned from the kitchenette with a glass and poured himself a measure of absinthe, letting the emerald liquid swirl before bringing it to his lips as he sat on his armchair. The bitterness coated his tongue, sharp and burning, a welcome distraction from the weight of her gaze. He refused to look at Rosie, but he could feel her eyes on him, could picture the infuriating curve of her knowing smile. The irony of it all made his skin crawl.

“Can you change the song?” he said curtly, his voice tight. “You’ve been listening to it for days in a row.”

“I like it,” Rosie answered, unbothered. “There’s rawness in his voice.”

Alastor exhaled slowly, setting his glass down on the small side table with just a little more force than necessary. “I’m sure you can find other artists you’ll like just as well from my collection, Rosie dearest.” The last word came out like a blade, sharp and biting.

Rosie had to stifle a snicker. Oh, he was close—so very close to snapping. And it only served him right.

She lowered the volume slightly before rising from the floor, making her way toward him.

“What are you having?”

“Nothing you would like, I’m sure.”

“That wasn’t my question, was it?”

Alastor exhaled sharply through his nose, taking another generous sip of his drink. His eyes, burning with irritation, flicked up to meet hers.

“You’re trying to get on my nerves.”

Rosie chuckled, plucking the glass from his hand with ease. “I’m not trying, I’m succeeding.” She took a tentative sip, only for her face to scrunch in immediate distaste. “Semantics aside, this is simply awful, dearest! How can you drink something so vile?”

Alastor scoffed, watching with something between irritation and slight amusement as she observed the glass with a small shudder.

“It’s an acquired taste, my dear. But then again, I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate the finer things in life.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.

Rosie delicately wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, still grimacing. “Now you’re just lashing out.”

“Oh?” Alastor tilted his head, his grin sharp and humourless. “Do forgive me, dearest, but I fail to see how stating the truth qualifies as lashing out.”

Rosie hummed thoughtfully, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of the glass. “Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed, her mock sympathy as sweet as honey. “You must be getting really desperate, such a weak attempt to try to get back at me.”

He scoffed once again, but before he could retort, she took another sip of the absinthe, this time forcing herself to swallow it down.

“Absolutely vile,” she murmured, shaking her head. “But I can see why you like it.”

Alastor arched a brow, intrigued despite himself. “Do enlighten me.”

Rosie smirked. “It burns.”

Alastor's grin widened, though there was no real amusement in it.

Rosie tilted her head to better look at him as she continued. “It burns, but you like the burn. You welcome it. It distracts, it consumes, it keeps the rest at bay.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Just like every other vice of yours.”

Alastor’s fingers curled against the armrest, his expression a perfect blend of annoyance and morbid delight. Damn her and her ability for such titillating banter. With a sigh, he rose from his seat, plucking the glass from Rosie’s hand and retrieving the absinthe bottle as he strode toward the kitchenette.

“Come.”

She followed, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

Without a word, he poured a measure of absinthe into a second glass, placing a fork over the rim before selecting a sugar cube from a small tin and setting it atop the prongs. Then, with precise, deliberate movements, he reached for the kettle and began preparing tea.

“Are you crafting a special drink just for me?” Rosie asked, her voice laced with amusement as she watched his unusually serious expression.

“As always, everything is special for the madame. Not that my efforts are ever truly appreciated.”

“Alastor,” she said, her tone turning serious. “You’re not going to put the blame on me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied smoothly, feigning innocence as he continued his preparations.

Rosie rolled her eyes but said nothing else. If he refused to address the elephant in the room, then neither would she. After all, everything was perfectly fine, wasn’t it?

She leaned against the wall and sighed, quietly observing his actions. The room was filled with the soft clinking of glass and metal, the only other sound being the low hum of the record still spinning in the background. After a while, the kettle let out a sharp hiss, and Alastor began preparing some mint tea. After, he poured the steaming liquid over the sugar cube, dissolving it into the absinthe. The scent of mint curled into the air, cool and sharp, a stark contrast to the bitter sting of the spirit beneath it.

Rosie watched everything with quiet intrigue, her gaze flickering between the glass and Alastor’s carefully schooled expression. He worked with an almost ritualistic precision, as if the act of preparation itself was a means of control.

“This is your grand solution?” she mused, tilting her head, a small cynic smile appearing on her lips. “Drowning your troubles in sweetened poison?”

Alastor grabbed the bottle and took a long, burning gulp straight from it. His vision blurred for a fleeting moment, but he welcomed the haze.

“Dearest, if I wanted to drown you,” he drawled, extending the prepared glass to her, “I assure you it wouldn’t be with expensive and hard-to-come-by alcohol.”

“So, I’m your trouble.” Rosie arched a brow but accepted the drink, taking a tentative sip. The emerald firewater, still sharp, was now softened by the sugar and mint, mellowing into something bordering the pleasant. “Oh. Much better.”

Alastor smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They darkened, shadowed with something unreadable as he took another swig straight from the bottle. “You’ve been nothing but troublesome for quite a while. Glad you’re finally catching up.”

Without another word, he brushed past her, bottle in hand, and sank back into his armchair. Rosie had been aggravating him for longer than he cared to admit. She stirred things—things he refused to touch. He didn’t do certain feelings. He was unable to. And that had always been fine.

Then she came along, and little by little, she started cracking the foundations of his carefully built reality. And with sheer terror, he realized it was slipping beyond his control. That feeling—the creeping, suffocating helplessness—was unbearable. He took another swig, chasing the numbness, willing it to settle in. He needed it to find the solitude that had been eluding him, needed it to dull the jagged edges of thoughts he refused to entertain.

For a while, they said nothing else. Rosie entertained herself with her sugary drink, while Alastor rummaged through his collection of vinyl, the bottle of absinthe never far from his grasp. He flipped through them with a sharp, almost restless energy, as if the right song might untangle the mess in his head.

Finally, he seemed satisfied with his finding. The needle met the record with a soft crackle, and through the room drifted the languid, honeyed notes of a saxophone—smooth, slow, winding through the air like smoke.

At the same time, Rosie grabbed a sugar cube from the tin with her drink on her hand and went to sit on the armchair armrest. Alastor raised an eyebrow, seeing her there so close. Something coiling around his throat, like a certain nervousness pooling at his stomach. Rosie took another small sip and then lightly sucked on the cube.

Alastor’s grip tightened around the bottle as he watched her, his smirk faltering for the briefest of moments. She was too close. Close enough that he could catch the faint traces of mint and absinthe on her breath, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

Rosie, of course, was entirely at ease, swirling her drink lazily as she let the sugar cube dissolve on her tongue. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, amusement flickering in her gaze.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

Alastor scoffed, looking away with deliberate nonchalance. “You’re in my space.”

“I’m not. You have plenty of space to sit in,” she countered with a smirk. She popped the last of the sugar cube into her mouth, letting it dissolve slowly before adding, “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

The wooden clock on the wall gave a slow, hollow chime, marking the deepest hour of the night.

Three a.m.

L’heure du loup. The hour of the wolf. That strange, liminal space where the veil between death and life thinned, where nightmares felt real, and reality felt like a dream. When sleep eluded the restless, and those who were awake found themselves teetering on the edge of something nameless.

Alastor let out a dry chuckle, taking another swig from the bottle as he sat. “Oh, but that’s the problem, isn’t it?” he mused, his voice laced with amusement and cynicism. “You don’t bite. And I would much prefer if you did. Instead, you linger. You wait. You seep into every corner like my own shadow.”

Rosie tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And whose fault is that?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watched her in the wavering candlelight, the flame’s glow flickering across her face, casting shifting shadows in her eyes. It was dangerously close to burning out. Just like him.

The bitterness of the absinthe still coated his tongue, the slow burn of it grounding him against the weight of her presence.

“I’m not apologizing if that’s what you’re expecting,” he said, taking another swig. The alcohol was already beginning to settle into his limbs, loosening his tongue, fraying the edges of his restraint.

“I wasn’t,” Rosie replied smoothly. “But I would like an explanation.”

“Well, you won’t get it.”

“You betrayed me.”

That snapped his last shred of control.

Alastor shot up from his chair so abruptly that Rosie barely had time to straighten before he was towering over her, his eyes burning with something raw and volatile. The dim candlelight cast long, flickering shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his posture.

“Me? I betrayed you?!” His voice, usually so smooth and measured, was rough, fraying at the edges. He laughed, sharp and humourless. “You’re the one who wants to leave! I have done everything—everything—to keep you happy, and still, you want to go back!”

“It’s my home, Alastor,” Rosie shot back, unflinching. “I don’t belong here.”

“Fuck that.”

The curse left his lips like a gunshot—sudden, jarring. Alastor very rarely swore. Only when he was truly angered. Truly affected. And Rosie knew it.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, as if the very act of standing still might let his emotions consume him whole. The alcohol was hitting now, fuelling his frustration, his helplessness. He hated it—hated how much she made him feel.

“And now,” he continued, gesturing wildly, “you’re set on following through with your little revenge play! Following me around wherever I go, not giving me a moment of peace until I’m about to burst!”

Rosie tilted her head, her smirk returning, calm amidst his storm. “I’m simply giving you what you want, darling.”

Alastor froze.

“Haven’t you gone through all the trouble of binding me to you?” she went on. “So that’s exactly what you’re getting.”

There was something dangerously sweet in her tone, something triumphant. He had backed himself into this corner and now she was closing in.

Alastor’s breath came sharp and shallow, his grip tightening around the bottle still clutched in his hand. He could feel the warmth of the alcohol seeping into his bloodstream, a slow burn that did nothing to dull the fire Rosie had ignited within him.

“You’re a very smart man, darling. Dangerously so,” she purred, her voice smooth as silk, laced with quiet triumph. She took a slow sip of her drink, letting the moment stretch. “But I played your game better than you did. Accept your defeat with grace.” Lowering the glass, she tilted her head, her tone almost nonchalant. “Actions have consequences. If you hadn’t learnt that before, consider yourself schooled now.”

His fingers flexed against the bottle, and for the briefest moment, he considered shattering it against the nearest surface. Not out of rage—no, rage he could handle. But this? This maddening, insidious thing curling inside him, a strange hybrid of resentment and desire, frustration and something dangerously close to longing? It was unbearable.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. The music still played in the background, the languid saxophone notes weaving through the tension like smoke curling through a dimly lit room.

Rosie’s touch was featherlight, but it might as well have been a shackle. A cruel, invisible tether binding him tighter than any spell ever could. He could ignore her words, dismiss them with a scoff, but not the way his body betrayed him—the way his breath hitched ever so slightly, the way his pulse pounded against his ribs like a caged beast.

“You’re not so out of yourself just because I’ve turned the game against you,” she murmured, her voice low, almost hypnotic. “There’s something else. I know you.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She did know him. Knew how to slip beneath his skin, how to read between the lines of his carefully woven facades.

Alastor said nothing. His jaw worked, muscles tight as he stared at her, his grip on the bottle turning his knuckles white. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw it or drain it dry. Either way, it wouldn’t fix what she had already done to him.

The candle flickered, sputtered—then died, plunging the room into near darkness. The only light now came from the street outside, thin slants of silver cutting through the window, stretching long shadows across the walls.

Rosie remained seated, poised, watching him through the dimness. Even in the dark, he could feel the weight of her knowing gaze. The silence between them was no longer empty—it was charged, thick with something burning, something that curled around his ribs like a vice. His pulse pounded, drowning out every rational thought.

Then, before he could stop himself, before he could think—he moved.

The crash of the bottle echoed through the room, the sharp scent of absinthe rising like smoke as the liquid bled across the floor. But Alastor didn’t care.

In a single, fevered impulse, he closed the distance, capturing her mouth with his. It wasn’t gentle, nor was it careful. It was searing, reckless, a firestorm of frustration and fury and something deeper, something neither of them dared name. His hands framed her face, fingers threading through her hair as if trying to anchor himself, as if trying to brand her into him, to make this real, tangible, undeniable.

Rosie didn’t pull away.

She met him with equal fervour, her hands curling into his shirt, dragging him closer. The taste of absinthe and sugar lingered on her lips—sweet and bitter, intoxicating. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only this moment, this fire, this madness.

Alastor had spent so long running from things he couldn’t control. But now, with Rosie in his grasp, burning against him—he didn’t know if he wanted to run at all.

His breath came in ragged gasps, each kiss more fervent than the last, as if he could consume her, make her indubitably part of him “You’re mine you’re mine you’re mine,” he murmured between each desperate press of his lips against hers, the words tumbling out like a fevered prayer—raw, possessive, almost manic. His grip tightened as if he could imprint himself onto her, branding her in a way no one else could ever touch.

Rosie only smirked against his mouth before nipping at his lower lip—just enough to sting, just enough to remind him that she wasn’t some fragile thing to be claimed without a fight. He inhaled sharply, his grip on her tightening, his hand travelling down, fingers pressing into her waist, her back, as if she might slip away should he loosen his hold for even a second.

She pulled back slightly, enough to meet his gaze with an unreadable expression, eyes dark and knowing.

“Am I?” Her voice was a whisper, sultry and teasing, but there was something beneath it—a challenge, a silent dare.

Alastor didn’t bother to answer with words. Instead, his hands moved with a fevered intensity, pulling her closer once more, crashing his mouth against hers, making her gasp, half in surprise, half in delight. The kiss was hungry, raw—he could no longer bear the distance between them.

Outside, the world was still cloaked in darkness, the only light spilling in from the street, flickering and thin, casting their entwined shadows against the walls. The hour of the wolf lingered, restless, watching.

Chapter Text

The girl felt him stir from the creaky bed, moving quietly as he searched for his clothes in the dim glow of the gas lamp. The air was heavy with the scent of perfume and lingering smoke, the remnants of a night he had never truly been present for.

“Already leaving, chéri?” Manon murmured, her voice thick with sleep and a slight hint of amusement.

“As delightful as your company is, my dear Manon, one must earn a living,” Alastor replied smoothly, slipping his arms into his vest with methodical precision. “And my way requires an early morning at the radio station.”

He turned to glance at her, sprawled across the bed, her bright nut-brown strands tousled over silk sheets that weren’t quite as luxurious as they appeared in the dim lighting. She smiled at him, slow and knowing, though not expectant. That was what he liked about her—Manon understood.

The invitation had come as no surprise. It never did.

His colleagues at the station treated these outings as ritual. A necessary indulgence. A gentleman’s entertainment. It was a camaraderie of excess, a parade of bourbon glasses and painted lips, all meant to reassure themselves that they were men of appetite, of experience, of wealth and power. To refuse too often was to invite questions—questions Alastor had no interest in answering.

And so, he played along.

Not out of desire, but out of necessity.

He let them drag him from their smoky lounge rooms to this place, let them slap him on the back and press a drink into his hand, let them mistake his detachment for enigmatic charm. They mistook his politeness for playfulness, his aloofness for quiet confidence. They laughed at the way the girls fawned over him, how they murmured his name like it meant something.

If only they knew how little it did.

The truth was a simple one—Alastor felt nothing. He never had. Not for women, nor for men. He had tested the theory once or twice, searching for a flicker of something—curiosity, longing, hunger—but found only indifference. The act of it all was tolerable at best, mechanical at worst. It wasn’t about pleasure, not for him. It was about keeping up appearances, about maintaining the mask of a man who played the game just as well as the rest of them.

Manon made it easy.

She was discreet, never pushed, never asked why he lingered in conversation more than he lingered in her arms. There was an unspoken agreement between them—he would pay for her time, and she would pretend not to notice when his touch lacked heat, when his mind was elsewhere. When he left before dawn, she never complained, never tried to entice him to stay.

Alastor reached into his pocket and withdrew a few crisp bills, placing them neatly on the vanity. More than what was expected, but then again, she had done her part well.

“Until next time, Manon.”

She smiled, slow and indulgent, before sinking back into the pillows, already drifting into the warm haze of sleep.

Alastor buttoned his coat, adjusted his tie, and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the muffled sounds of laughter and distant music still filtering through the heavy velvet curtains. Another night, another farce.

By the time he stepped onto the quiet, fog-laden streets of New Orleans, the taste of cheap liquor and perfume was already fading from his tongue.

Rosie’s fingers tangled in his hair, slow and deliberate, nails grazing his scalp just enough to send a shudder rippling down his spine. A growl rumbled low in his throat, swallowed by the fevered press of his mouth against hers. He was drowning, burning, spiralling into something he did not understand and could not control.

What on earth had she reduced him to?...

Alastor pulled her closer, his grip firm, almost desperate. His fingers dug into the fabric of her dress, curling at her waist as if to prevent her escape if he didn’t hold on tightly enough. Every nerve in his body was aflame, searing with something dark and unrelenting, something that had festered too long beneath the surface. And she—she was at the centre of it, stoking the fire, consuming him piece by piece.

He wanted to devour her.

No, more than that—he wanted to crawl inside her skin, to brand himself into her as she had somehow, insidiously, branded herself into him. It was maddening. Unacceptable. He was not a man of weakness, not a man of indulgence, not someone who let himself be undone by mere want.

And yet, there he was, unravelling.

His breath was ragged as he pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips were kiss-swollen and there was something in her eyes that sent a fresh jolt of heat through him. Amusement. Satisfaction. Adoration. Challenge.

She knew exactly what she was doing to him.

"Rosie..." His voice was hoarse, rough with something dangerously close to pleading.

Her fingers curled a little tighter in his hair, her smirk slow and knowing. "What is it, darling?" she murmured, tilting her head just slightly, teasing, taunting.

His jaw clenched. He had no answer. Or rather, he had too many, all of them tangled together in a mess of frustration, desire, and something he wasn’t ready to name.

He kissed her again instead. Fiercer. Hungrier. As if he could reclaim whatever it was she had stolen from him.

Rosie met his fervour without hesitation, matching the intensity of his kiss, deepening it with a slow, deliberate slide of her tongue against his. It was infuriating. Addictive. The way she met him head-on, refused to yield, refused to be conquered.

His hands skimmed her sides, fingers pressing into the curves of her waist, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath beneath his palms. He could barely think. Every thought was drowned beneath the roaring, deafening need that clawed at him.

Slowly, but with an effortless grace that reminded him—just for a moment—that she was not like him, Rosie pulled away. It wasn’t a shove, not even a rejection, to him it was just a quiet, unspoken reminder of what she was. A demon. And he? A man. She could break him in half if she wanted. Could pin him, restrain him, end him with little more than a flick of her wrist.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she looked at him with an expression that made his stomach twist, her dark eyes soft, searching. There was something there—something he didn’t want to name, something that gnawed at the edges of his carefully crafted detachment.

“How drunk are you?” she asked, her voice quiet, measured.

Alastor let out a breathless, humourless chuckle, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. “Really? Do I look like I’m about to fall over my feet?” His grin was sharp, a touch defiant, though his pulse was still hammering, betraying him.

Rosie leaned in slightly, her forehead brushing against his as she considered him. “No,” she admitted, her voice a whisper between them. She reached out, fingers hovering just shy of his skin, lingering in the charged space between them. “But you do look like you’re on the verge of losing yourself.”

Something flickered across his face, almost too fast to catch. He scoffed, stepping back, creating distance where there had been none. “Oh, darling,” he purred, voice dripping with false ease. “That ship has long since sailed.”

Rosie tilted her head, still watching him, and it unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Because the truth was, this was unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

With Manon—or any of the others—it had always been mechanical. A performance. He went through the motions like an actor playing a role he’d long since memorized, touching where he knew he was supposed to, murmuring the right words at the right time. He was never rough, never unkind, and he always paid well, but there was no fire, no real hunger.

It was obligation. A transaction. Proof to the world—and to himself—that he was… normal. That he could do this.

But it never lingered. Not on his skin, not in his thoughts. The moment he stepped out of the perfumed haze of those rooms, it was over. Forgotten.

But Rosie was different. She had always been different, but somewhere along the way, she had become something else entirely in his eyes. It wasn’t just her voice, smooth and teasing, or the sharp wit that cut through his defences like a blade wrapped in silk. It wasn’t just her smile, the way it curled with amusement, with knowing. It wasn’t even the way her dark eyes gleamed—mischievous, hungry, delighted in ways that should have unsettled him but instead only pulled him deeper.

No, it was everything. The way she played him so masterfully, matching him move for move, always one step ahead, always knowing just how to push him to the brink without sending him over. It was the way she revelled in her nature, in the thrill of the hunt, in the taste of human life on her tongue, all while looking at him like she knew something he didn’t.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

And it made him want to scream. And the ghost of the urge to kiss her, a spectre that had lingered in the depths of his mind for who knew how long, had finally seized him—unyielding, undeniable.

With her, every touch ignited something beneath his skin, something restless, fevered, consuming. She unsettled him in a way no one else ever had. She didn’t just let him play his part—she played back, met him where he was, challenged him. With her, he wasn’t thinking about how he should act or what came next. He wasn’t acting at all.

She tangled her fingers in his hair, and he felt it everywhere. When she pulled away, his body protested. He knew then that he was ruined for anything less. That was the terrifying truth of it—there would be no going back.

For a moment, they simply stood there—her hands resting lightly on his chest, his fingers ghosting over her waist. Rosie was patient, her gaze steady, waiting for him to decide what he truly wanted. Alastor, however, could barely hold her eyes, as if meeting them would unravel whatever fragile restraint he had left.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked, her voice soft, yet edged with something knowing, something dangerous.

At last, he met her gaze. There was no mockery in her eyes, no amusement at his hesitation—only that same quiet patience, the same unbearable understanding that had been unravelling him from the inside out.

His answer came without words. Instead, he took her hand, his grip firm, deliberate. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the steady pulse beneath his fingertips. And then, without another moment’s pause, he led her toward the bedroom.

The air between them felt heavy. Every step felt like a descent into something inevitable, something that had been building for far too long. The dim glow from the streetlights spilled through the window, casting faint, shifting silhouettes on the walls. Shadows of him, of her—of whatever it was that existed between them, no longer ignorable, no longer deniable.

As they crossed the threshold, the tension in the air seemed to thicken even further and the creak of the floorboards beneath their feet echoing in the stillness, was a subtle reminder of the gravity of the moment. The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint light filtering in through the window, casting a soft glow that gave Rosie an almost oneiric quality—a haunting vision, ethereal and untouchable.

The moment she closed the door behind her, Alastor was on her—his body pressing her firmly against the door not giving Rosie any time to react. His lips crashed onto hers, hungry and desperate, as if he couldn’t wait another second. A soft gasp escaped her, a sound that was just the right mix of surprise and pleasure, and it thrilled him more than he cared to admit. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of her body seeping through the thin fabric between them. Every inch of him seemed to crave her, as if he were starved for her presence, for her touch, for the taste of her kiss. The kiss was frantic, wild, like a fire that had long been smouldering and was now finally allowed to blaze.

Rosie pushed him back with surprising strength, and for a moment, Alastor was caught off guard, blinking in confusion as he stumbled back onto the bed. His surprise didn’t last long, though, and a slow grin spread across his face. Wicked woman, he thought, watching her with an intense mixture of admiration and frustration. She had a way of provoking him, of playing him like a finely tuned instrument, and it drove him wild.

She smiled back at him, a teasing glint in her eyes as she stepped further into the darkened room. The pale moonlight from the window cut through the shadows, bathing her tall figure in an ethereal glow, accentuating the curves of her body, and enhancing even further her otherworldly beauty.

“You are to wait, sir,” she said, her voice a melodic mixture of command and sweetness that sent a shiver down his spine. “I’m not having you rip my dress.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, amused. “I can always buy you more fabric so you can sew a new one.”

She chuckled softly, but it was tinged with mischief as she shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she replied, her tone smooth and confident, yet hinting at something deeper. “You’re too used to taking what you want. This time, you’re waiting.”

His grin only deepened, his eyes never leaving her as she began to undo the buttons of her dress, each one slowly falling open, revealing more of the skin beneath. The soft fabric fluttered against her skin, and Alastor’s breath hitched slightly. It was as though the very act of undressing herself—of making him wait—was its own seduction. He could feel the growing tension between them, like a taut rope about to snap, but she seemed to be savouring every moment, every shift of fabric and every slow, deliberate movement.

His eyes traced her fingers as they worked the buttons open, one after another, her hands steady, deliberate, teasing him with the promise of what was to come. But with each motion, the anticipation only deepened, his mind swirling with thoughts that he was trying desperately to control.

Alastor leaned back against the bed, his gaze dark, as he watched her, unable to tear his eyes away. The power she had over him was maddening, yet he couldn’t help but relish in it. No one had ever made him feel this way.

She slowly loosened her hair, the strands slipping free from their careful restraint, and like a river of glossy pearls, they cascaded down her shoulders, falling in gentle waves that shimmered faintly in the low light. The dark room seemed to hold its breath as her hair unfurled, curling softly around the curves of her breasts, emphasizing their delicate swell.

In that moment, she resembled something carved from marble—beautiful, pristine, and ethereal—but she was not stone. The way she moved, fluid and confident, breathed life into the sculpture, transforming it into something real, something that called to him with an undeniable pull.

Her hair framed her face, softening her features, and the way the locks swayed gently with each movement made her seem almost otherworldly. The dim light kissed her skin, casting shadows and highlights that accentuated every curve, every line. Alastor could barely breathe, transfixed by the vision before him—her beauty so raw, so tangible, that it felt as if the very air around him had thickened.

Every inch of her was a temptation, a siren's call that he couldn't resist. It was almost too much to bear, the way she stood there, so effortlessly perfect, yet so impossibly distant.

Rosie moved toward the bed with the effortless grace of a predator, each step deliberate, feline-like, her presence commanding the space around them. The dim light caught on the delicate curves of her body, tracing the elegant lines of her form, making her seem both untouchable and intoxicatingly close.

Before Alastor could fully process it—before he could rationalize, analyse, or put a name to the fire licking at his veins—she was already above him. Her body hovered over his, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, her breath ghosting over his, sending a shiver down his spine. The scent of her—something darkly floral, rich and heady—wrapped around him, unravelling the last threads of restraint he might have had left.

And he knew then, with a clarity that almost frightened him, that that was his place. Beneath her, ensnared in the gravity of her, undone by the weight of her presence alone.

Slowly, deliberately, she pulled his tie free, the silk slipping from her fingers like a ribbon unravelling. As they resumed kissing, her hands moved with practiced ease, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one, cool fingertips grazing his fevered skin.

Alastor’s grip tangled in her curls, not rough, but firm enough to coax a soft gasp from her lips—a sound that sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him. Seizing the moment, she dipped her head, running her tongue languidly along the column of his throat, feeling his pulse hammer beneath her lips.

“You would taste so good on my tongue, my darling…” she purred, her voice rich with promise, with hunger. She felt the sharp hitch in his breath, the way his fingers dug just a little tighter into her hair, and she smiled against his skin. His body, his very being, was reacting to her in ways she doubted even he fully understood.

He chuckled breathlessly, the sound low and edged with something near delirium. “You say that like you haven’t been savouring me already,” he murmured, his fingers tightening in her hair. “Like you haven’t been eating me slowly, driving me to the point of ruin.”

Rosie didn’t respond—not with words. Instead, she let her lips speak for her, pressing slow, deliberate kisses down the centre of his chest, each one a lingering brand against his fevered skin. Her mouth traced a path lower, unhurried and maddening, leaving him breathless beneath her touch. Down and down she went, until her fingers reached his waistband, her nails scraping lightly against his stomach as she began to unbuckle his belt with a measured, almost teasing precision.

Clearly, her ministrations were having the desired effect. Alastor's breath hitched, his body tensing beneath her as her fingers ghosted over his cock. Rosie giggled, a sultry, knowing sound, as she traced idle patterns against his member, revelling in the way it twitched at her touch.

"My, my," she mused, voice dripping with amusement. "So terribly sensitive, aren't you?"

She leaned in, lips brushing just above the tip, her breath sending shivers up his spine. Her hand began to move along his length, teasing, testing, as she delighted in unravelling him, piece by piece.

Alastor let out a shaky exhale, his fingers flexing at his sides as if grappling for control he no longer had. Rosie was toying with him, taking her time, relishing every reaction she coaxed from him like a cat playing with its prey.

“You’re… enjoying this far too much…” he rasped, his voice frayed at the edges.

Rosie only smirked, pressing a languid kiss to his tip, her lips barely grazing him. “I enjoy many things, darling.” Her hand stilled deliberately, just to hear the low, desperate sound he made in protest. Amused, she tilted her head, watching him with that same knowing glint in her eyes. “But watching you unravel for me?” She sighed theatrically, her breath warm against his skin. “That might just be my favourite.”

Alastor let out a rough chuckle. He wanted to say something sharp, something to regain footing in this dangerous game between them, but words had long abandoned him. Instead, he tangled his fingers into her hair again, gripping just enough to make her hum in approval.

Rosie glanced up at him, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement and something deeper—something that made his pulse hammer in his throat.

“Now,” she purred, “be good and let me enjoy my meal.”

He watched, mesmerized, as her pretty mouth wrapped around his length, the sight alone enough to send a wave of pleasure washing through him. His fingers curled into the sheets, a desperate attempt to anchor himself, to keep from surrendering to the primal urge to thrust deep into the heat of her mouth. She moved slowly, deliberately, tasting every inch of him, her dark eyes flicking up to meet his, wicked and triumphant.

He swallowed hard, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The pleasure was intense, overwhelming, and yet, it was almost painful. Every time she took him deeper, his body tensed, fighting to hold back from losing control completely. He could feel himself unravelling with each languid movement of her mouth, each gentle pull of her hand.

"Rosie..." His voice was strained, hoarse, barely a whisper as he struggled to hold onto his composure. He was slipping, coming undone piece by piece, and the way she looked at him, with such dark amusement and unrelenting hunger, only made it harder to resist.

Each drag of her mouth was like a slow burn, igniting something deep inside him, and just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer, she pulled away slightly, leaving him gasping for more.

With a soft, teasing smile, she spoke in a voice that was almost a purr. “Patience, darling. I’m not finished with you yet.”

Alastor’s breath came in jagged gasps, his body quivering with the effort to hold back. The control he had so carefully maintained throughout his existence seemed to be slipping away in the wake of her touch. Every part of him screamed for release, but she was relentless, a force of nature that made him feel like nothing more than prey caught in her web.

Rosie continued her slow, deliberate movements, her hands running up his thighs, teasing him further. The warmth of her mouth was almost unbearable, yet his body betrayed him, leaning into her touch, desperate for more. He could feel the weight of the moment bearing down on him, the need for release almost overwhelming. But she was in control—he was at her mercy.

"Do you want me to finish, darling?" she asked softly, her voice a velvet whisper that sent another shiver down his spine. It wasn’t a question of need—it was a command wrapped in seductive tones, a taunt he couldn’t escape from.

Alastor gritted his teeth, clenching his fists until his knuckles ached. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout at her, demand that she take him, end this unbearable teasing. But all that came out was a breathless, frustrated groan, the kind of sound that told her everything she needed to know about how far gone he was.

“Please…” His voice cracked, barely audible, as he desperately whispered the word that felt foreign on his lips, yet impossible to hold back.

Rosie, still smirking, gave him just enough of a break before she moved back up, capturing his lips with hers. The kiss was hungry and urgent, full of a wild, unrestrained need that mirrored the storm brewing between them. It was as though she had granted him a fleeting reprieve, only to yank him back to the edge of madness, her tongue tracing the outline of his mouth as though marking her territory.

For a moment, everything seemed to still—the world outside the bedroom forgotten as they were consumed by the heat of the moment. But it didn’t last. He didn’t let it.

Rosie was about to return to her original position, eager to pick up where she had left off, but Alastor wasn’t having it. His hands shot out, gripping her waist with a force that made her gasp, the heat of his palms burning on her naked skin. He stared at her, eyes darkened with a simmering intensity, throwing a heated look her way.

“My turn,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, every syllable dripping with intent. There was a challenge in his eyes, a promise.

His left hand slid from her waist, down the curve of her hip and the soft, trembling line of her thigh. He moved deliberately, relishing on the feel of her under his touch, before he paused just where he knew it would have the most effect. His fingers hovered, teasing, before they gently pressed into the sensitive skin beneath her, drawing out a breathless gasp from Rosie—one of the most delicious sounds he'd ever heard in his life.

Her body responded instinctively, a soft shudder rippling through her, and that sound—the way her breath caught, the soft, yearning noise—sent a thrill through him that made his heart beat faster. It was as though he'd unlocked some hidden chamber of her that only he could access, and the realization made the intensity of his desire flare hotter.

She closed her eyes, her face shifting into an enraptured expression, her lips parted slightly as if indulging herself in the sensations. He could feel her reaction in every inch of her body—the way she arched into his touch, the soft tremble that coursed through her, the heat of her skin searing against his fingertips. Each movement, each breath she took, only deepened his growing hunger for her. It was maddening, but in the most intoxicating, addictive way possible.

Louis had never touched her like that. Then again, Louis had only ever seen her as a pretty decoration, something to flaunt on his arm or a source of occasional relief in the privacy of their bed. There had been no tenderness, no exploration. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it, and she had learnt long ago to endure it. But this... this was different. Alastor’s touch was electric, charged with intent and something far deeper than mere physical desire. He wasn’t just taking from her—he was drawing something from within her, something she hadn’t had the opportunity to fully discover yet, and in return, he was giving something back.

Rosie gasped softly as Alastor’s fingers worked their magic, her body instinctively arching into him. She opened her eyes, the smouldering heat in them unmistakable as she met his gaze.

He removed his fingers, slick with her desire, and Rosie, breathless, adjusted herself on his lap. The movement was slow, deliberate, as she shifted to find a rhythm that matched the heat pooling between them. The air around them was thick with tension, her body trembling slightly from the aftershocks of his touch, as she hovered over him, her breath a soft whisper against his skin.

Her hands, steady despite the chaos of her pulse, slid to his shoulders as she sank down on him, a low sound escaping her lips, a mixture of relief and hunger. She stayed still for a moment, eyes closed as she adjusted, relishing the connection, the intimate burn of him inside her.

Alastor’s breath hitched, his grip tightening around her waist as she slowly began to move, testing the boundaries between them. Each shift, each breath they shared, sent waves of pleasure crashing over them both, and yet, it felt like they were still holding back—teetering on the edge of something far more intense.

Rosie’s eyes opened slowly, meeting his gaze with a heated, dangerous spark. She moaned softly, a sound that reverberated through him, low and sultry. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried a weight, thick with intent and a promise of what was to come.

"Alastor..." she breathed, as she pressed closer, her body already beginning to move against his. Each subtle shift was deliberate, a teasing movement that made the tension in the room grow unbearable, drawing out every inch of desire they had both been trying to suppress.

Her fingers trailed lightly across his chest, nails scratching just enough to send a thrill through his veins. She was all fire and control, and the way she looked at him, as if she owned the moment, made his pulse quicken.

It was maddening. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer, wanting to feel every inch of her, wanting to lose himself in her, to surrender completely. But even in that moment, he knew, just as she did, that neither of them would ever truly give up control entirely. They were both too used to having it.

Rosie’s lips brushed against his ear, her breath hot against his skin. "Let go," she whispered, her voice dripping with desire. "I want to feel you fall apart for me."

Oh, but first, he would hear her call for him. He would hear her surrender, feel the weight of her words as they tumbled from her lips, knowing that in that moment, she was his.

Alastor’s breath hitched as his hands tightened around her waist, his gaze darkening with a hunger he could no longer mask. He leaned in, lips brushing against her ear, his voice low and demanding, like a quiet threat. "Before you get what you want…" he murmured, the words a velvet promise, "you will say it. You will say you're mine."

The words lingered between them, heavy in the air, and Rosie froze, her body still against his, a fleeting shiver running through her. She could feel the heat of his words sink into her skin, the way he held her like he could break her with a single word. The tension between them built, an electrifying mix of dominance and desire, each second pushing them closer to the edge.

She tilted her head back slightly, her breath shallow, looking down at him with a glint of challenge in her eyes. "And what if I don’t?" she replied with a slight tone of defiance that only seemed to spur him on.

His hands moved to her jaw, tilting her face just enough to catch her gaze fully. "Then," he said, the smile on his lips cruel and laced with self-righteousness, "you won’t get the pleasure you’re begging for."

Rosie’s heart skipped a beat. She knew the stakes, the weight of his words, but his tone—raw, commanding—ignited something deep within her. Slowly, her lips parted, ready to surrender, but before she could speak, he thrust harshly, pulling a loud gasp from her.

"Say it." His voice was low, almost a growl, as he paused his thrusts, holding her there, teetering on the edge. Each moment that passed, each second of restraint, only heightened the tension between them, fuelling the fire that burned in him.

Rosie’s breath caught in her throat, the air between them thick with anticipation. She could feel every inch of him, every demanding, punishing movement, but he wouldn't let her go until she said it. "Say it," he repeated, his hands gripping her tighter, his body pressing harder against hers.

She could feel the hunger in him, the desperate need to claim, to hear the words that would tie them together in that moment, irrevocably. And yet, something in her stirred, a slow burn of defiance that refused to give in easily.

"Say it," he urged again, his voice rough with desire, tightening his grip around her. His body pressed into hers once more, forcing her forward, the rhythm between them relentless, unyielding.

Her voice trembled as she finally gave in, her lips parting with a whispered confession. "I’m yours," she breathed, the words falling from her like a confession, heavy with both surrender and strength.

And in that moment, everything else ceased to exist. It was just the two of them, caught in a moment of raw, dangerous intimacy, the world outside forgotten, the bond between them solidified by that single, irrevocable statement.

The heat between them swelled to a fever pitch, an unstoppable crescendo that sent Rosie spiralling over the edge. Her breath hitched, her entire body tensing before melting into pure, shuddering pleasure. It took every last shred of her self-control not to sink her teeth into his shoulder, not to mark him in the way her instincts screamed for her to. Instead, she buried her face in the crook of his neck, muffling the cry that threatened to escape her lips.

Alastor wasn’t far behind. The moment her walls clenched around him, his rhythm stuttered, a deep, guttural groan ripping from his throat as he followed her into bliss. His grip on her waist tightened as he rode out his release, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. For a moment, neither of them moved, locked together in the aftermath, their bodies tangled in sweat and satisfaction.

Rosie could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against hers, the erratic thrum of his heartbeat echoing the wild rhythm of her own. His grip on her remained firm, almost desperate, as though he feared she might slip away like a dream come dawn.

Alastor, however, refused to think of morning. He loathed the inevitable arrival of sunlight, the cruel announcement of reality. If he had the power, he would snuff out the rising sun itself, plunge the world into an endless night where time could not steal this moment from him. Here, in the cocoon of darkness, Rosie was his—tangled in his arms, her warmth pressed against him, the only thing that had ever truly felt real.

Chapter Text

No night was eternal—not even one like the last. He had given in, and she had done exactly the same. But the morning cared nothing for their sighed words or the fervent prayers they had moaned into each other’s skin. It came regardless, dragging reality behind it.

With no respect for Alastor’s hard-won sleep, the first sunrays pierced through the window, striking his tanned face and stirring him from slumber. He furrowed his brows in irritation, clinging to the edges of sleep. Through the hazy remnants of his dreams, a thought formed—The sun shouldn’t be hitting me. Not if I’m on my usual side.

The realization was enough to pull him fully into wakefulness. Blinking against the golden light, his senses sharpened, and with a jolt of surprise, he became aware of two things at once. First, he was not, in fact, lying on the side of the bed he always claimed as his own. And second—perhaps more startling—his normally inviolable personal space was thoroughly occupied.

Rosie was tangled against him, her body warm and languid as she slept, head tucked beneath his chin. Her legs draped over his, one arm curled loosely around his waist, as if she had always belonged there. And she, of course, looked perfectly content—blissfully undisturbed by the morning’s intrusion.

He exhaled softly, a breath that might have been a laugh had it not held so much disbelief. She had managed to do the impossible—apart from everything else, she had also altered the way he slept. For a man who prized his independence, his control, it was a startling realization. And as he laid there, caught between incredulity and the strange warmth curling low in his stomach, he couldn’t help but think—she was right where she belonged.

Slowly, so as not to wake Rosie, Alastor sat up on the bed and carefully untangled himself from her. Her warmth lingered on his skin, a ghostly reminder of the night before. He cast a glance at the floor where their clothes were scattered in careless disarray—his neatly pressed trousers crumpled beside her dress, stockings draped over his shoes. Quietly he gathered his garments, smoothing out the wrinkles as best he could. Her dress, soft beneath his fingers, he folded with care and placed it over the back of a nearby chair.

The room was still steeped in the hush of early morning, broken only by the faint sounds of the city stirring to life beyond the window. Alastor moved with the exactness of a man accustomed to routine, taking a quick, bracing shower before beginning to dress. He buttoned his shirt with steady fingers and adjusted his suspenders, yet his thoughts were anything but orderly. The station expected him by nine, and the last thing he needed was to arrive late and invite questions. Yet, even as he fastened his cufflinks, his gaze kept drifting back to the bed—to her.

She laid sprawled across the sheets, hair tousled and curls in a wild storm, lips slightly parted in sleep. Peaceful. Unbothered. And in that moment, like every other moment of her existence, impossibly lovely. He should leave before she woke. It would be easier that way—no awkwardness, no questions he didn’t want to answer, no conversation he wasn’t prepared to have. If it were up to him, they would both let the night slip by unmentioned—everything that needed to be said had already been spoken, in words and in far more telling ways. After all, Rosie had cried loud and clear that she was his, and that was all he needed to hear. The memory of her breathless moans echoed in his mind, drawing a wicked smirk to his lips—and stirring other, less convenient sensations he promptly pushed aside. It wasn’t going to be at the age of twenty-nine that he’d start behaving like a love-struck adolescent, all smitten and hormonal. He had his dignity, and he intended to keep it intact.

However, he knew Rosie. Silence, especially in matters like these, was never her way. There was no chance she would let what happened between them fade quietly into the background. She would address it head-on, with that sharp tongue and dangerously brilliant mind of hers. He needed more time—to think, to prepare himself for whatever she might say, for whatever scheme or teasing provocation she was undoubtedly already brewing.  

He left the bedroom, stepping quietly into the dim light of the living room. The early morning sun filtered weakly through the windows, casting pale gold streaks across the wooden floor and Alastor clicked his tongue in mild annoyance at the mess left behind from the night before.

The shattered absinthe bottle lay in jagged fragments near the armchair, the emerald liquid seeping into the floorboards—a waste of perfectly good spirits. The scent of anise hung heavy in the air, cloying and sharp, a lingering reminder of their indulgence.

His shoes crunched softly over the broken glass as he crouched down, inspecting the damage with a sigh. And yet, as much as the mess irked him, it brought with it flashes of the night before—her laughter ringing out, the glint in her dark eyes, wicked and soft all at once, and the way she had tasted of sugar, mint and liquorice when he kissed her.

He shook the memory away, rising to his full height as he stepped carefully around the spill. No time to reminisce. He had a job to get to—and if he lingered, there was no telling what chaos the woman still curled up in his bed would drag him into next. Maybe back to her warm embrace, back beneath the sheets where her touch made him forget everything else. And if that happened, who knew when he would manage to pull himself away again? No doubt, she’d make him lose track of time entirely, leaving the morning to slip through his fingers and the station to wonder where their star voice had vanished. Still, even as he reached for a cloth to clean the mess, a smirk tugged at his lips. Chaos, perhaps—but it was a chaos he found himself craving more and more.

Quickly he ate something—just enough to silence the nagging in his stomach—before shrugging on his coat and grabbing his keys. He had one foot out the door when he heard her voice drift from the bedroom.

“Alastor?...” Rosie called softly, her voice thick with sleep.

He froze. He could pretend he didn’t hear her. He could walk out, leave the night behind without giving it breath in the daylight. But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned slightly, smoothing his expression into something light.

“Yes, darling?” he replied, his voice almost too bright, too easy, as if the mere sound of her hadn’t just made his pulse quicken all over again.

The soft sound of shuffling reached his ears, and moments later, Rosie appeared in the bedroom doorway wrapped loosely in a blanket, the fabric slipping off ever slightly to reveal a teasing glimpse of skin. Her hair fell in wild curls around her face—soft, untamed, and utterly lovely. Sleep still clung to her features, but her dark eyes were sharp, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“You’re going to work?” Her voice was soft, still laced with the huskiness of sleep.

“I am,” he answered, fastening the last button of his coat.

“Are you coming back at lunchtime?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

She didn’t reply—just stood there, watching him with that patient, knowing gaze. It was unnerving how easily she could disarm him without even trying.

Alastor exhaled through his nose, adjusting his notch as if the motion might steady him. “But… I suppose I can find some time,” he added, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them.

A smile, small but genuine, tugged at her lips. “Thank you.”

And damn it all, he was already wondering how quickly noon would come.

As Alastor climbed the narrow stairs back to his studio, where Rosie was undoubtedly waiting for him, a carefully crafted plan had already taken shape in his mind. He had exactly one hour for lunch—sixty precise minutes—and all he needed to do was fill that time with enough conversation to keep Rosie from broaching the subject of what had happened between them last night. And if there was one thing Alastor excelled at, it was talking incessantly when the situation required it.

He straightened his tie as he ascended, mentally sorting through a dozen safe topics—new cases at the station, the latest gossip from the precinct, even the absurdity of city politics. Anything to steer the conversation away from tangled sheets and heated confessions. It was a foolproof plan. Or so he told himself.

And yet, beneath his polished resolve, a lingering warmth remained—a memory of her touch, her voice, the way she had said his name like it belonged to her. He shook the thought away. This hour would be nothing more than lunch. He would make sure of it.

As he entered, the mouthwatering scent of food greeted him, warm and inviting, curling through the air like a welcome he hadn’t expected. The faint sound of music drifted from the gramophone, echoing softly through the house. To his relief, she had finally changed the song—no more endless repeats of that blues record that had nearly driven him mad. Instead, something slower played now, a wistful melody that felt almost too fitting for the delicate tension hanging between them.

His eyes swept the room, landing on Rosie. She stood by the small dining table, setting down a plate with such a casual elegance that made it seem as though she belonged there. Her hair was swept loosely over one shoulder, and she wore his robe, tied just enough to leave things to the imagination. Of course, that was exactly her style—tease just enough to keep him guessing.

“I thought I’d make myself useful,” she said, glancing up at him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You do need to eat, after all.”

Alastor slipped off his coat, hanging it neatly by the door, and forced a smile in return. An hour, he reminded himself. Just one hour. Keep it simple.

“I took a bath and put this on,” she said, gesturing to the robe. “Do you mind?”

Alastor’s gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, taking in the way the smooth fabric clung to her curves, the delicate neckline hinting at the bare skin beneath.

“No, not at all,” he answered, his voice smooth but a little too quick. The truth was the robe had never looked better. Then again, in his opinion, Rosie could make a sack of potatoes look like haute couture.

She tilted her head slightly, as though she could read every thought racing through his mind. “Good,” she said, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “I wasn’t planning on changing.”

He sat down at the table, deliberately focusing on the task at hand. He picked up his fork, almost as if the simple action of eating could somehow ground him.

“This morning has been absolutely chaotic even for my standards,” he began, keeping his voice light, “We’ve been getting a lot of new requests—lots of people wanting us to play a mix of jazz and blues. I think I might shake things up a bit this upcoming week and dedicate an entire segment to the classics.”

And then he launched into a long explanation, detailing the latest trends in radio and the audience's unpredictable tastes. Then he talked about the studio renovations, about the difficulties of keeping up with music requests, and the endless cycle of music and scheduling. He made sure to keep his speech fast-paced, as though he could outrun the thoughts that were lingering just beneath the surface of his words.

Alastor hoped his chatter was enough to fill the space, to keep her mind on something other than that—the night that had left them tangled in more ways than one. It was so much easier to lose himself in talk, in his own words. But it was impossible to ignore the way her eyes kept following his every move, how her silence seemed to question his every diversion.

“And my boss’s wife has been there every single day lately,” Alastor continued, shaking his head with exaggerated frustration. “Offering her very much unwanted opinions about the renovations, trying to convince the man into transforming the place into some sort of pastel, flowery nightmare.” He waved his hand dismissively, eyes rolling. “Can you imagine? She’s got this idea of ‘classy’ that’s all gilded mirrors and too much velvet. It’s almost as if she thinks we should turn the place into a French parlour from the 1800s, with lace everywhere and teacups on every surface.”

He leaned back in his chair, clearly amused by his own rant. “I swear, I’ve never seen someone with such tacky taste in my life. It’s as though the man can’t make a decision without her hovering over him, trying to force her ‘vision’ onto everything. I’m just waiting for her to suggest we replace the entire sound system with an antique gramophone.”

He took a bite of his food, savouring the small reprieve before continuing. “Honestly, I can’t even tell if it’s her actual ideas or just her obsession with trying to get attention. But there’s only so much bad taste I can endure. If she gets her way, we might have to put curtains on the speakers.” He chuckled, more to himself than anyone else, letting the ridiculousness of the situation hang in the air before taking another bite.

As he spoke, he kept his voice light, his tone sarcastic, but something in his chest tightened. Despite the humour, there was a lingering discomfort he couldn’t shake, the feeling that he was just talking to fill the space—because there was a silence between them that neither of them had addressed yet, one that felt heavier with every word. Still, he carried on, avoiding the pull of the thoughts that threatened to drown him.

“Impressive,” Rosie finally replied.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, slightly puzzled. “Not the first adjective I would use to characterize that woman, but—"

“No, it’s impressive how you’ve been talking for the past thirty minutes without barely stopping to breathe,” she interrupted with a smirk, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned back in her chair, amused.

Alastor paused, feeling the weight of her gaze settle on him like a heavy cloak. She most definitely had seen right through the layers of words and distractions he had been tossing out so effortlessly. He had overplayed his hand, perhaps. Rosie wasn’t someone who could be fooled by surface-level chatter. She was far too sharp, far too perceptive. And the moment she locked eyes with him, he knew she wasn’t buying it.

A flash of irritation—more at himself than her—brushed across his features. How had he let her catch him so quickly? He hadn’t been careful enough, and now he could feel the pressure building in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, not exactly, but there was something about her way of seeing right through him that made him feel exposed, vulnerable. And he hated feeling vulnerable.

Alastor shifted slightly in his chair, trying to cover the momentary slip. “What can I say, Rosie dear,” he said with a playful shrug, though there was a slight edge to his smile—an undercurrent of something he wasn’t quite acknowledging. “It was an eventful morning.”

Rosie chuckled softly, shaking her head, clearly not fooled by his act. “Oh, I’m sure. But would it be possible for you to give me ten seconds to speak?”

“By all means,” he replied, leaning back in his chair—but there was no mistaking the hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

“I heard on the radio this morning that a new film is playing at the theatre, and I’d like to go watch it. I’ve never been to a movie theatre before.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Pardon? What radio station? Certainly not the one I’m on! You were tuning in to others instead of me?”

“That’s not the point, Alastor.”

“Oh, but it most certainly is!” he exclaimed, sounding genuinely scandalized. “Who else have you been listening to? I demand to know their name—I’ll not have my listeners straying for some second-rate broadcaster!”

Rosie bit her lip to keep from laughing outright, amused by his indignation. “I assure you, no one’s replaced you. But I do want to see this film.”

“And you believe I’d simply take you?” He arched a brow, though the glint in his eye betrayed his intrigue. “Without proper penance for your betrayal?”

“Penance? Dear me, whatever will you do? Call an exorcist?” Rosie laughed, the sound warm and sweet—but with that familiar sharpness beneath. “That would be amusing to see.”

“Even more amusing is how you’re assuming that I’m taking you out,” Alastor countered as he leant back in his chair, feigning indifference.

“Why not?” Rosie tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips. “After all, as you can testify by now, I can appear wherever you are. A marvellous perk of being bound to you that I’ve exploited so very aptly.” She traced a finger along the edge of the table, her words dripping with playful threat.

Alastor narrowed his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “What film exactly?”

“The Broadway Melody,” she answered without missing a beat, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“Oh, Rosie, truly?” He sighed, dragging out the word as if it physically pained him. “You’re not expecting me to sit through a sappy festival of lovesick fools prancing around and bursting into song, are you?” His tone dripped with exaggerated disdain as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Coming from such a talented musician as yourself, I was expecting a more open mind,” Rosie quipped, her tone light but her eyes gleaming with challenge.

Alastor placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “I am quite open-minded, thank you very much—to actual art.” He replied, tilting his chin up as if delivering a lecture. “And let me tell you, this sound cinema is very much of dubious quality! Where’s the space for imagination? Where’s the room for nuance? Why must every emotion be bludgeoned into the audience with dialogue?”

Rosie laughed softly, stepping closer, standing behind him. “Is that so? And yet, you’re perfectly fine with prattling on the radio for hours at a time. But I suppose that’s different, isn’t it?” She rested her hands on the back of his chair, leaning in just enough for her breath to brush his cheek. “Your voice is art, of course.”

“Your words, not mine,” he muttered, though his lips curled into a smirk.

“Come now, darling.” She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Surely even you can survive an hour or two without hearing yourself speak?”

His laughter was low and yet indulgent, a sound he couldn’t quite suppress. “You’re impossible.”

“And you adore me for it,” Rosie purred, her voice honey-sweet. “So, do I have the pleasure of your company, or should I find some other handsome gentleman to escort me?”

Alastor rolled his eyes but stood, adjusting his coat with a theatrical sigh. “Fine. But if they break into song more than three times, I’m leaving.”

It hadn’t been easy. First, Alastor had to secure a ticket for the latest showing, manoeuvring through the crowd without drawing attention. Then, he had to ensure that no one would be seated too close to his spot on the upper balcony as Rosie could not to be seen by anyone. Fortunately, fame had its perks. With the right words, he secured a discreet nook, one where the shadows worked in his favour and where he was assured no one would disturb him.

 Now seated in the shadows, he waited, eyes flicking at the minimal sound. Rosie had promised she would arrive before the show began, but the minutes dragged on, stretching his patience thin. Each whisper of movement in the air sent his pulse racing—only for disappointment to settle in when it wasn’t her.

Alastor scoffed at himself, shaking his head. This was ridiculous. Since when did he get nervous? And yet, there he was—fingers drumming against his knee, jaw tight, every muscle coiled as if bracing for something unseen. He exhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling, but his pulse still betrayed him, quick and restless.

“You seem tense.”

Her voice, barely more than a whisper, came suddenly from his left—soft, lilting, and laced with unmistakable amusement. There was a teasing accent to her tone, like she already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear him squirm.

Alastor didn’t turn right away. He could feel the warmth of her presence, her smile, the way her breath ghosted near his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Evidently I am, my dearest,” he replied without turning to face her, the corners of his mouth curling into a sardonic grin. “Of all the nightly activities you could have chosen, you’ve managed to select the most puerile piece of entertainment this city has to offer. Quite the accomplishment.”

“Aww!…” Rosie gasped, her tone dripping with mock pity as she dramatically clasped her hands to her chest. “My poor darling is pouting because I’m forcing him to watch a talkie! Truly, you suffer like a martyr. Shall I fetch a crown of thorns to complete the look?”

Alastor rolled his eyes but didn’t respond.

“Thank you for bringing me,” Rosie murmured, leaning in to press a featherlight kiss to his cheek. Then, with that same soft intimacy, she brushed her lips closer to his ear, her voice a sultry whisper that curled down his spine. “But don’t think I’ll start going easy on you just because of yesterday,” she purred. “I’m going to punish you for what you’ve done—so slowly—until you lose every last bit of your composure. Until you forget your name, your music, your beautiful bloodlust… everything but me.”

The words hit him like one of the shots of absinthe he had taken the night before—hot, dizzying, and impossible to ignore. He turned to her with a sharp intake of breath, as if jolted by a live wire, but before he could retort, the theatre lights dimmed. The projector flickered to life, casting moving shadows across the screen—and the last thing he saw before darkness claimed the room was Rosie’s smile. Languid. Promising. Delicious. Dangerous.

By the end of the film, their reactions could not have been more different. Rosie sat back in her seat with a radiant expression, hands clasped together as if she’d just witnessed the greatest spectacle on Earth. Her eyes sparkled with delight, the music and melodrama clearly having swept her off her feet. She sighed contentedly, utterly charmed.

Alastor, on the other hand, looked as though he had spent the past two hours being subjected to a particularly creative form of torture. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched in restrained exasperation. If given the choice, he might’ve chosen to leap into the Mississippi and take his chances with the resident alligators rather than sit through another moment of that infernal cacophony masquerading as cinema.

Rosie glanced sideways and smirked. “So,” she drawled, stretching with a little hum, “wasn’t it just divine?”

Alastor turned to her, deadpan. “If by ‘divine’ you mean a garish parade of lovesick imbeciles who communicate primarily by shrieking in song—then yes, Rosie. Positively celestial.”

She grinned, utterly unbothered. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

As they waited for the small trickle of patrons to exit the theatre, a rare hush settled between them. The once humming energy of Rosie’s post-film delight had simmered into something quieter. Alastor sat rigidly beside her, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the velvet curtain ahead. He didn’t dare glance at her—not with her last whispered promise echoing in his mind like a drum, like a siren.

He could feel her watching him. No, studying him. Like a cat eyeing a trapped bird, amused and patient, savouring every twitch of discomfort he betrayed. It gnawed at him. He had never been one to sit silently in the seat of prey, never been reduced to this vulnerable, anticipatory state. Worse still was the quiet horror of realization that curled low in his stomach: he didn’t entirely mind it as long as it was her.

He had walked willingly into her little game, given himself over to the slow burn of her sadistic game, half torture half pleasure, and now found himself addicted to the flame. It grated against every inch of pride he possessed—but even that pride couldn’t erase the memory of her body above his, the sound of her voice cracking with pleasure as she called out his name, her mouth spilling declarations she could never take back.

Still, as tempting as it was to remind her—to wipe that smug little smile off her face by dragging her down memory lane—Alastor forced himself to remain composed. Perhaps it would be more prudent not to address her threat at all. Let her revel in the illusion of control a little longer.

Because sooner or later, she would remember who made her beg.

It took a bit until it was safe for Alastor to leave the theatre unnoticed, especially given the wildcard that was Rosie who could very well choose the worst possible moment to materialize and draw unwanted attention. The last thing he needed was a scandal involving an otherworldly enchanting woman no one had seen enter with him.

But in his haste to avoid one pitfall, he walked right into another.

Just as he reached the exit, his path was blocked by a small group of young women. They were clustered in a tight, animated circle just outside the theatre, laughing and chattering loudly about the film. They were undoubtedly the epitome of the “New Woman” of the Jazz Age—liberated and utterly unapologetic in their independence. Their bobbed hair, shorter than the average of the time, was styled perfectly, and their vibrant dresses clung to the latest trends. They spoke with confidence, their voices spilling out in the same breathless excitement of women who had tasted freedom and found it delicious.

From a mere glance, Alastor could tell that those women were all ardent fans of his work. He’d seen them in the crowd at his performances before—if only from afar. Their eyes always lingered on him with that gleam of admiration, almost reverence. They were the kind of women who revelled in the allure of the spotlight, and he was no stranger to that particular kind of attention.

One of the women, her voice pitched higher than the rest, suddenly turned toward him, her eyes lighting up in recognition. She almost stumbled in her excitement, the others following her gaze. Alastor sighed inwardly, hoping to make a swift and unnoticed exit, but of course, that would never be the case.

“Oh, my goodness! Alastor!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with delight, drawing the attention of the others. “How unexpected to find you here! We’ve been talking about your performances for ages!”

The rest of the group swivelled toward him in unison, their expressions a mix of awe and adoration. Alastor cursed softly under his breath, though his face remained ever the picture of charming composure. He plastered on a smile, his posture stiffening slightly as he bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“A pleasure, ladies.” he said smoothly, his tone as refined as ever. “I do hope you enjoyed the film. Certainly a... unique experience.”

The women laughed, some of them casting knowing glances at one another. One of them, a blonde with a particularly bold red lipstick, sidled closer to him, her gaze lingering. “Always so modest monsieur!” she said, her voice dripping with flirtation. “But tell us, what is it really like, standing under all those lights, commanding every eye in the room? It must be such a thrill… having so many people hanging on your every word.”

Alastor chuckled, a sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His mind raced, plotting an exit strategy, but he couldn’t resist the small thrill of being the centre of attention. Still, the last thing he needed right now was to be trapped in idle chatter with a group of adoring fans when he had a very particular situation named Rosie to deal with.

“Well, I do enjoy an audience,” he replied smoothly, his eyes flicking toward the street as if gauging the best time to make his retreat. “But tonight is for quieter pleasures, I’m afraid.” He gave them all a polite smile, stepping back.

One of the women, clearly not picking up on his subtle cues, leaned forward, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Are you heading somewhere? Maybe a club? We’d love to join you.”

Alastor felt the corners of his lips twitch slightly in discomfort, an instinctive response to the flirtation.

And then he felt a shift in the air as his blood ran cold. Rosie appeared.

Right behind the group of unsuspecting women, like a shadow blooming into shape, silent and spectral. She stood tall, draped in her usual inky elegance that made her presence feel more apparition than flesh. A haunter in the dark. Her eyes were unreadable, as she scanned the girls slowly, as though evaluating which of them might scream the sweetest.

Then her gaze flicked to Alastor.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t her usual mischievous grin, nor the sultry smirk she so often wore when toying with him. No—this one was sharp, measured, a dangerous curl of lips that walked the tightrope between amusement and something far colder. A warning, perhaps. Or a test.

Alastor swallowed slowly, the animated voices of the women fading into a distant hum. His hands buried in the pockets of his coat, and for once, he had no clever remark, no charming deflection. He simply stood there, staring—perfectly still—like a man who had just found himself on very thin ice and was waiting, breathless, to see whether Rosie would let it crack beneath him.

“Are you alright?” one of the women asked.

“Yes,” he replied curtly, his voice clipped and distant—devoid of its usual charm. His eyes, however, never left Rosie’s. There was a silent, urgent plea in them, a desperate request barely hidden behind the calm mask he wore. Not here, not now. The middle of the street was too exposed, too risky. One misstep, and everything could come crumbling down.

The women, sensing his distraction and curiosity piqued by the tension in his gaze, turned around in unison to see what—or who—had stolen his attention so completely.

For one breathless moment, Alastor felt a wave of pure, unadulterated panic grip his chest. His pulse thundered in his ears.

But just as their eyes landed on the spot where Rosie had stood, she vanished—dissolving into thin air with the same ghostly elegance in which she had arrived. Not a trace left. No swirl of air, no flicker of shadow. Nothing.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening just enough to make it look like nothing had ever been amiss.

“Huh… weird,” one of the girls muttered, shrugging.

“Must’ve been nothing,” another added, already moving on with a giggle and a toss of her bobbed hair. “Anyway, you were saying, monsieur?” She leaned in closer, clearly still vying for his attention.

But Alastor’s smile, when it returned, was hollow and tight. His thoughts weren’t with them anymore. Rosie had vanished, yes—but she had made her point. And the message had landed right between his ribs.

It took a considerable amount of smooth charm, forced smiles, and polite excuses, but eventually Alastor managed to peel himself away from the adoring crowd of young fans. As he turned the corner onto a quieter street, the noise of the theatre faded, and the gaslights cast long shadows across the sidewalk.

And, right on cue, as if materializing from the very darkness itself, Rosie stepped into view—smug, graceful, and looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

Before she could even part her lips, Alastor turned sharply, his eyes flashing.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” he snapped, his voice low and seething.

Rosie blinked, tilting her head with theatrical innocence. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I’m talking about!”

“I simply went to check what all the commotion was about,” she said sweetly, her smile too sharp to be genuine.

“That was not what you were doing,” he hissed, taking a step closer. “You were looming over them, about to pounce! Were you trying to give me a heart attack in front of people?”

She giggled, completely unfazed. “Well, can you blame me? They were practically fawning and drooling all over you like starved puppies. It was very amusing to watch.”

Alastor groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Rosie, for fuck’s sake, you can’t just appear like that in public! What if they had seen you?”

Rosie stepped closer, her voice dropping into something silkier. “You should be thanking me, darling—I saved you from being eaten alive by a pack of admirers. You owe me.”

He glared at her, jaw clenched. Her little wordplay hadn’t gone unnoticed, but in that moment, he couldn’t find it even remotely amusing. “Remind me to never take you anywhere again.”

“Oh, come now, don’t be like that,” she purred, placing a feather-light kiss on his cheek before wrapping herself around his arm. “I wasn’t going to eat them.”

“Didn’t look like it from where I was standing,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

Rosie tilted her head, her smile lazy and wicked. “Well… it has been a while since you brought me someone…” she cooed, her voice laced with something dark and honey-sweet. “And I’m sure you miss it too… the chase, the hunger, the thrill of hunting someone down. I can tell.”

She let her fingers trail along his sleeve, slow and deliberate. “You can put on all the pretty smiles and charm all the little darlings you want, but it’s still there, Alastor. Just beneath your skin. Just like me.”

Alastor looked at her with a slow, dangerous grin of his own.

“I have standards regarding my victims, you know.”

“Be that as it may,” Rosie replied, her tone silken and amused, “your standards don’t feed my hunger.” She tilted her head slightly, her platinum curls tumbling over one shoulder. “And no matter how much human food I eat, it never truly satisfies me. Yet another fantastic perk attached to the consequences of your actions.”

He raised a brow. “Why do I get the feeling you’re bluffing, just to get a rise out of me?”

“I may be.” Her smile deepened. “Or I may not. Are you willing to risk it?” She leaned in closer, her voice dipping to a wicked whisper. “I’ve never hidden what I am, darling—a cannibal demon.”

“And yet,” he drawled, his tone dry, “you’ve been consuming humans and not demons for quite a while. Technically speaking, your little acts of actual cannibalism have been... delayed.”

Rosie laughed, dark and delightful. “You’d be surprised, my darling, how incredibly similar the taste is. The ones you bring me... they carry the rot of sinners in their flesh. You must be hunting the absolute scourge of this city.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk, an unmistakable glint of pride lighting up his eyes. “But my set of rules are mine exclusively. I’m not going to share them with anyone—not even you.”

Rosie arched a brow, lips curving into something between amusement and challenge, whispering against his ear. “Mm, I didn’t really ask you to explain now, did I?”

 Alastor let out a low laugh, rich and a touch dangerous. “You enjoy provoking me far too much.”

“And you enjoy being provoked,” she shot back, brushing her fingers down the lapel of his coat. “Don’t pretend otherwise. You thrive on the tension.”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t have to.

Alastor tilted his head, his grin sharpening. “Is that what you think this is? Tension?” His voice dipped, low and coaxing, as he leaned just slightly closer, their breath mingling in the quiet. “Darling, you have no idea what tension I could create if I truly set my mind to it.”

Rosie’s eyes glittered with dark delight. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Depends.” His gaze dropped momentarily to her lips, then flicked back up. “Do you want me to make you beg… or scream? Because I think we both know I can do either.”

A low, dangerous laugh spilled from her lips. “Oh? Are we finally going to talk about last night?” she teased, eyes gleaming. “But you were doing such an admirable job pretending it never happened!”

He chuckled, dark and smooth. She was terrible—delightfully so. “You’re insatiable.”

“And you,” she purred, fingers grazing the edge of his collar, “aren’t nearly as good at faking indifference as you think.”

He caught her wrist gently, his thumb brushing the pulse at its centre. “Careful, Rosie. There’s only so long I can keep pretending to be a gentleman.”

Her smile deepened, slow and dangerous. “I’m counting on it.” She leaned in, her voice velvet and venom. “And for the record… you didn’t make me beg. I did. You, darling, were as tame as a lamb while you were at it.”

Alastor’s grip on her wrist tightened ever so slightly, a silent warning—or maybe a promise. His voice dropped, low and velvet-smooth, brushing against her skin like a caress. “Is that so?” he murmured. “Funny… I remember you clutching the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.”

Rosie’s breath hitched just barely, as a very light blush appeared on her cheeks and that was all the confirmation he needed. He leaned in with a victorious grin, his lips ghosting hers, deliberately not touching, letting the anticipation burn hotter than contact.

“I remember every sound you made,” he continued, his tone dark honey, slow and indulgent. “The way your body arched… how you shook when I touched you where you wanted... And I haven’t even started talking about what I could do if I stopped being tame.”

And then, without another word, he closed the distance—his lips finding hers in a kiss that wasn’t gentle, or hesitant, or sweet. It was deep, claiming, unapologetic. The kind of kiss that promised ruin and rapture in equal measure.

When they finally parted, both breathing heavier, his voice was rougher, edged with something primal but final. “You’re staying.”

She laughed, breathless, eyes wild and glowing. “Until the day comes. But not tonight.”

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The waiting room, though elegantly furnished, felt suffocating. It wasn’t the size but the company. There were too many Demons for Edward’s taste. He kept his eyes fixed on the lavish double doors leading into the office beyond, his posture tense, his jaw clenched with barely restrained irritation—a subtle twitch that only Beatrice, seated beside him, would notice.

“Easy, darling. We’ve already made it this far,” she murmured, her fingers gently curling around his hand, her smile soft and reassuring.

Edward glanced at her, trying to return the smile, but the best he managed was a stiff grimace. Still, he gave her hand a small squeeze. She was right—they had made it. And soon, for better or worse, it would all come to an end. After three gruelling years lost in the teeth of cruel bureaucracy, the endless petitions, rejections, appeals, and hostile interviews—they were finally at Queen Lilith’s office door.

And yet, the room was thick with contempt. He could feel it pressing in on him, the sharp, unblinking stares like knives at their backs. Their presence was an affront to the rest. Whispers slithered from corner to corner, venomous and cruel. Savages, they said. Animals. What right did Cannibals have to sit among them? To brush shoulders with noble-born Demons whose bloodlines were forged in fire and status?

It didn’t matter that he and Beatrice were Hellborn, that their lineage predated most of the self-important aristocrats around them. In the eyes of the elite, Cannibals were barely more than monsters dressed in borrowed civility—creatures of instinct and hunger who belonged in the wastes of the lower circles, not within arm’s reach of a throne.

Edward’s jaw tensed further. Let them whisper. Let them glare. He would not shrink. He would not bow. Not now. Not ever.

He and his wife had burned too much of themselves to get here. They had clawed their way to this threshold, he and Beatrice—through bigotry, through loss, through crushing despair, through every door slammed in their faces. And now, they would walk through this one.

They would not leave without what they came for.

A tall, sharply dressed secretary emerged suddenly from behind the grand double doors, her presence slicing through the quiet tension of the room like a blade. Every Demon in the waiting area straightened subtly—holding their breath, waiting. One of them was about to be called.

She was striking, in the cold and calculated way of someone used to holding power secondhand. Her ensemble was bold, unapologetically edgy—dark leather gloves, asymmetrical tailoring, gleaming metal accents. Her heels clicked authoritatively against the marble floor as she stepped forward, flipping through the list in her gloved hand with an expression of complete detachment, as though none of the souls seated before her were worth a moment of genuine attention.

Edward’s fingers twitched. He felt Beatrice gently squeeze his hand again, her silent reassurance barely hiding the tension in her own frame. He could hear her breath hitch, just once.

Then the secretary spoke—her voice loud, clear, and perfectly neutral.

“Edward and Beatrice.”

All eyes turned. The judgment in the room sharpened like claws.

Edward stood slowly, every movement controlled, his figure a perfect image of decorum. He could feel the weight of every stare on his back—some smug, some disgusted, all dismissive. But he didn’t flinch. He refused to give them the satisfaction.

Beside him, Beatrice didn’t move.

He turned slightly, concern flickering through his eyes. She was frozen, her posture rigid, her gaze locked somewhere on the floor. Fear had seized her, subtle but unmistakable. It clung to her like frost.

“Bea…” he murmured, his voice gentler now, coaxing. “Come on. It’s us.”

Though his words were soft, they trembled at the edges with his own nerves. This was the moment they had fought for—and dreaded—for three long years. There was no turning back.

She blinked, breaking from her trance. With a shaky breath, she rose slowly to her feet. Her face was bloodless, the ghostly pallor of it stark against the sheen of her silver hair, which shimmered like moonlight under the waiting room’s cold chandelier.

He offered her his hand again and she took it. And despite everything—the years of struggle, the fear clawing at their throats—they walked forward.

The secretary gave no greeting, no smile—just a nod to follow, and turned sharply on her heel. They moved in unison, stepping through the doors together, leaving the room behind them thick with whispers.

The doors shut behind them with a heavy, echoing thud, sealing them off from the murmurs and eyes of the waiting room. Before them stretched a long corridor, lined in deep shadows and gilded elegance. The walls were dressed in dark, opulent wallpaper with golden patterns that shimmered subtly under the low, amber light. Ornate sconces cast a flickering glow, and the carpet beneath their feet was plush, muffling every step they took.

Under any other circumstances, it would have been a sight worth admiring—an architectural marvel. Beatrice, especially, would have loved it. She had always adored beauty in all its forms, always took the time to notice the fine brushwork of a painting, the shape of a sculpture, the story behind an embroidered detail. But now her eyes barely registered the luxury. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, unblinking, as if looking too long at anything else might betray her focus—or reveal her fear.

Edward gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She didn’t look at him, but she held on tighter.

“Right, so,” the secretary began, her tone clipped and void of warmth as she strode ahead without so much as glancing back at the couple, “you have five minutes to speak with Her Majesty. Her agenda is rather full, and she cannot afford to waste her day entertaining every grievance people drag to her feet. Be succinct, direct, and above all polite. Is that clear?”

Edward’s jaw flexed. For a brief second, his gaze darkened, sharp and dangerous. The image of her head rolling cleanly off those stiff, haughty shoulders flickered through his mind with unnerving clarity. But he didn’t move. He didn’t allow even a twitch to betray his thoughts. Years of self-control—and Beatrice’s calming presence—kept his temper leashed.

“Of course,” he said coolly, the barest edge of irony dancing behind his words. “Thank you for the instructions, miss.”

The secretary gave a dismissive nod, clearly unimpressed, and gestured toward the ornate double doors at the corridor’s end. “Good. Then don’t waste her time.”

As she turned on her heel and marched off, Edward felt Beatrice’s fingers clutch tighter around his. He looked at her, and for a moment, their fear and determination were reflected plainly in each other’s eyes.

Edward drew in a deep, steady breath and stepped forward, lifting his hand to knock gently against the tall, imposing doors. The soft sound echoed down the silent corridor like a warning bell.

For a moment the world seemed to pause. Time stretched unbearably, the air thick with anticipation. Beatrice stood beside him, silent but tense, her hand gripping the folds of her skirt tightly.

Then, at last, a voice replied. Smooth, poised, and dangerously serene. Feminine, but laced with something far older and far more powerful.

“Enter.”

Just one word, and yet it carried the weight of authority that could crush kingdoms—or raise them. Edward glanced once at Beatrice. Her silver lashes fluttered with a shaky breath, but she nodded.

With a push, he opened the doors and they stepped into their Queen’s office.

The division was a cathedral of shadow and grandeur. Tall arched windows stretched up the black marble walls, veiled in sheer gold-tinted drapery that let in only slivers of the ever-burning crimson skies outside. Everything gleamed—obsidian floors polished to a mirror finish, golden trims catching every flicker of movement like firelight dancing on a blade.

And yet, despite the sheer regality of the space, it wasn’t cold.

The vast room pulsed with a strange, living warmth. A hearth crackled quietly in one corner, its flames burning an unnatural violet hue. Shelves of ancient tomes and neatly arranged artifacts lined the walls in precise symmetry. A plush settee in deep velvet sat beneath a towering portrait—Queen Lilith herself rendered in masterful strokes, a perfect vision of grace and command in a sweeping obsidian gown adorned with celestial embroidery. But what made the painting truly striking was not just her poise, but the softness attributed to her expression—a warm, loving gaze turned toward the man at her side.

Lucifer Morningstar stood beside her, regal and effortlessly magnetic, dressed in a sharply tailored suit of white and gold. In his arms, held with quiet pride and protectiveness, was their daughter—Princess Charlotte Morningstar. The child’s cherubic features were bathed in golden light, her eyes gleaming with curiosity and wonder, her tiny fingers reaching up toward her mother.

It was a moment captured in rare intimacy, as though the artist had painted not just royalty, but a family. A reminder that even the most powerful beings in Hell could love.

Beatrice’s eyes lingered on the painting, her breath catching ever so slightly, tears almost on the verge of spilling but she managed to control herself. Edward noticed but said nothing, only squeezed her hand gently.

At the centre of the room stood her desk, carved from dark wood with clawed feet and inlaid with golden sigils that shimmered faintly, as though alive. Papers were perfectly arranged, a single black quill resting in a crystal inkpot. No clutter. No excess. Just elegance honed to a lethal point.

And behind it, seated with a stillness that made the entire room seem to bend around her, was Lilith. Regal, relaxed and utterly unreadable.

“Your Majesty,” Edward said, voice steady but respectful, bowing deeply. Beatrice followed his lead in perfect synchrony.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Beatrice added, her voice soft but sincere.

Lilith inclined her head slightly, a cascade of long golden hair spilling gently over one shoulder and brushing the edge of the obsidian desk. Her fingers were steepled beneath her chin, the faintest trace of warmth glimmering in her gaze—subtle, but unmistakable to those who knew how to look. Try as she might to maintain regal detachment, she had always held a quiet fondness for her Cannibals.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said, her voice smooth, rich with restrained emotion. She gestured gracefully to the two chairs before her. “Let us not waste your precious time. Speak.”

“Your Highness…” Edward began after a small silence, his voice steady but edged with restrained emotion. “We come here before you with a… rather uncommon request. It’s about our daughter,”

“Your daughter?” Lilith’s brows lifted faintly, her tone curious.

“Yes,” Beatrice picked up, her hands tightly clasped on her lap. “Our Rosie has been missing for three years. And while everything points to her having… passed, we—”

“—We don’t believe it,” Edward interjected, his voice firmer now, his jaw tight. “Rosie is clever. Wickedly so. She wouldn’t have just stumbled into an ambush. Not without leaving a trail. Not without a fight.”

Beatrice nodded, her silver hair catching the soft glow of the room’s golden light. “We’re not asking for hope where there is none, Your Majesty. But if there’s even a chance—if there’s something you could do… we need to know. We need to find her. Or at least… know the truth.”

“I see. And I assume,” Lilith said, her fingers drumming lightly against her lips, “that you may have a lead?”

“Unfortunately, we do not,” Edward admitted, his voice tight with the frustration of having to say it aloud. “But we’ve thought about this—over and over again. Scrutinized every possibility. Every detail. And in the end… we have one theory. The only explanation that makes sense.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Which is?”

Beatrice leaned forward, her voice low but resolute. “Our Rosie was summoned to the world of the living—and trapped there. That’s why we’ve never found a trace of her here.”

Edward nodded, his eyes locked onto the Queen’s. “And that, Your Majesty, is why we’re here today. After three long years of agony and struggle, while trying to get this audience… we are humbly requesting you speak with a member of the Ars Goetia to confirm if Rosie is, in fact, among the living.”

Beatrice’s voice wavered slightly, but her spine stayed straight. “We wouldn’t ask if there were any other way. But we’ve exhausted every other path. We just… need to know. We vowed that we would not rest until we know what happened to our Rosie…”

Her fingers curled tightly around the fabric of her skirt as she exhaled, the weight of the years pressing visibly on her shoulders. “Your Majesty… you are a mother as well—we have that in common.”

She paused, her voice softer now, more fragile, yet no less determined. “Wouldn’t you move Hell, Heaven, Earth… and the entire Universe, if there was even the faintest chance that your missing daughter could come back to your arms?”

The words lingered in the air—aching, burning, pleading. Beatrice looked to Lilith not as a queen, but as a mother, hoping that some part of her—some fragment beyond crown and title—would understand.

Lilith’s gaze betrayed her feelings. For a fleeting moment, her regal composure cracked, and her eyes softened. A fleeting flash of something tender passed through her—an echo of the vulnerability Beatrice had laid bare.

For the briefest second, she was not the Queen of Hell, but a mother—just like Beatrice. The corners of her lips twitched imperceptibly, as though the very thought of her own daughter stirred something deep inside her. But just as quickly as the softness appeared, it vanished, replaced by the practiced mask of authority that had defined her rule for centuries.

She leaned forward slightly, her fingers still steepled in front of her, her tone carrying the faintest warmth. "I understand your desperation.”

She paused, her piercing eyes locking onto Edward and Beatrice with a force that could command armies. "I cannot promise you an easy answer. The balance of realms is delicate, and meddling in the human world is fraught with consequences."

Her gaze softened once again, if only for a heartbeat. "But… I know the weight of a mother’s love, and I will not stand idly by if there is even the slightest chance to bring your daughter back."

The words hung between them, heavy and filled with the possibility of both hope and consequence.

Edward’s eyes widened just slightly, disbelief flickering across his face before he schooled it back into something more composed. “You will help us, Your Majesty?” he asked, his voice low with incredulous gratitude, as though the weight of three years of hopeless waiting had just been lifted—if only slightly.

Lilith’s expression softened again, this time without hiding it. “I cannot promise that your quest will have success,” she said, her voice measured, but not unkind. “But… as your wife so eloquently put, I too am a mother. And both my husband and I would tear apart the fabric of existence itself if there were even the slimmest hope of bringing our daughter back as well if something happened to her.”

She paused, folding her hands atop the desk as she looked between them. “I shall speak with someone from the Ars Goetia. If anyone in this realm can help you, it is them.”

Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat, her grip tightening slightly on Edward’s arm. There was no promise of reunion—no miracle granted. But it was hope. Real hope. A door cracked open after years of them being slammed shut.

“We are… deeply grateful, Your Majesty,” Beatrice whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of emotion—relief, awe, and the first fragile threads of faith.

Lilith gave a slight nod, her tone final, but not dismissive. “Steel yourselves. Answers do not always bring peace.”

Rosie had her attention divided in two. She continued to sketch in a small notebook, the edge of her pencil smudging faintly as she worked, but her gaze kept drifting toward Alastor. He was pacing the living room like a man possessed in the most euphoric of ways, chattering and gesticulating wildly with a pen in hand—half conductor, half showman. His usual polished transatlantic accent gradually slipped, unravelling into the lush, unmistakable cadence of his New Orleans roots, rich and languid.

He didn’t seem to notice the shift. But Rosie did. And it made her smile. It was charming. Endearing, even. That rare, unguarded version of him—one not crafted for the airwaves or the public in general.

“And get this,” he called out suddenly, spinning on his heel and pointing at her with the pen as if she were a live audience, “they want me to open the night—me! Right before Bessie Smith and Duke Ellington. Can you imagine? Sharing a stage with legends! It’s practically a dream come true!”

He laughed after he said it, a sound that rumbled low in his chest, boyish and disbelieving. Rosie didn’t look up right away but her smile deepened.

“You’re glowing,” she said softly, finally glancing at him. “Like a child on… what do you humans call it… ah yes, Christmas morning. Only instead of toys, you’re being handed a microphone and a stage with some of your idols.”

Alastor’s grin stretched wider, his eyes alight with something wild and bright. “Exactly! This is everything I’ve ever wanted! To be part of something bigger. To melt into that sound.”

He snapped his fingers once for emphasis, the gesture sharp and electric, his expression touched with pure, unfiltered ecstasy.

Rosie leaned her cheek into her hand, watching him with quiet admiration. “I think the legends are lucky to share a stage with you, darling.”

That made him pause, mid-step, just for a moment—pen lowered, brows raised. Her words lingered, settling somewhere behind his ribs where the applause couldn’t quite reach but her voice and words could effortlessly.

“Also,” she added, pressing the pencil tip against the paper, her gaze dropping once again to her sketch, “you’re slipping, sweetheart.” Her tone was light, teasing, almost singsong.

Alastor blinked, his steps slowing. “Pardon?”

“Mhm.” She gave a slight smirk, not bothering to look up just yet. “Full Louisiana boy. Thick and sweet.” Then her eyes flicked up, glinting with amusement. “Adorable.”

Alastor laughed, the sound short and sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck with a flicker of rare self-consciousness. A blush crept onto his cheeks—light, but unmistakable—and he ducked his head slightly, though the smile never left his face.

“Well,” he said, voice softer now, “I suppose there are worse ways to be caught off guard.”

Rosie smirked, visibly delighted by the hint of colour blooming across Alastor’s cheeks but chose not to comment on it. Instead, with a content little hum, she lowered her gaze back to her notebook and resumed sketching, pencil gliding across the page.

“And what is my little artiste creating now? Another of her dresses?” Alastor asked, the teasing lilt in his voice barely masking his eagerness to shift the attention off himself.

Rosie smiled knowingly, the corner of her mouth tugging upward in discrete amusement, though her eyes remained fixed on the paper in front of her.
“A good guess,” she replied, pencil still gliding in smooth strokes, “but no.”

She paused just long enough for his curiosity to stir, then continued with a soft lilt of pride.
“From the moment you walked through that door, you've done nothing but talk about your upcoming big night. So... I’ve been working for you.”

She finally looked up, her eyes dancing with affection and a bit of mischief. “I thought you could use something special. A touch of Rosie on that stage.”

“Meaning?” he asked, brows raised, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his growing intrigue.

“I thought of a waistcoat, perhaps,” Rosie said, rising gracefully from her seat. Her movements were unhurried, fluid, each step toward him deliberate—as if the silence between words was part of the surprise, as much a tease as the glint in her eyes. “A luxurious, gorgeous crimson waistcoat, tailored just for you.”

She stopped in front of him, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of her perfume. Her hand lightly brushed over the front of his shirt, right where the waistcoat would sit.

“A showstopper for the showman,” she murmured, eyes flicking up to meet his, “so no one forgets who lit up the stage that night.”

She finally flipped the notebook around, holding it out for him to see.

The page revealed a sharply drawn sketch of a waistcoat that was unmistakably Alastor—cropped and tailored to perfection, its sleek silhouette accentuated by a subtly flared hemline that elegantly dipped at the front. A wide, angular lapel stole the spotlight, bold and architectural, lending the piece a dramatic flair. The fabric, a sumptuous crimson, was brought to life with delicate black embroidery curling like smoke along the seams—ornate without being ostentatious. It was elegant, theatrical, and with just the right touch of danger.

“It’s a masterpiece, don’t you think?” Rosie’s voice was soft but certain, her eyes glinting with pride as she watched his reaction. “A piece that will make you stand out, even among legends. You’ll be impossible to ignore in this.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him as if waiting for his approval, knowing how much the stage meant to him.

Alastor’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of the sketch. For a moment, he was completely silent—his usually animated face stilling into something reverent. The waistcoat was more than he had imagined. It wasn’t just clothing; it was confidence stitched in silk, pride embroidered in black, and flair soaked in crimson. Sublime didn’t begin to cover it.

“Rosie…” he breathed, almost in awe, running a careful finger along the edge of the paper. “It’s… it’s me. You’ve captured me.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she replied softly, a hint of pride in her voice. “Now hold still. I need to take your measurements.”

Rosie worked with quiet focus, her movements precise and elegant. Her expression was calm, but the closeness was deliberate. Each measurement was taken with reverence, almost like a dance. She moved around Alastor with the intimacy of someone who knew every plane, every angle of the body she was dressing.

Meanwhile Alastor stood still, unusually so. His hands hanged loosely at his sides, but his gaze was anything but passive. He watched her closely—how her brows furrowed ever so slightly as she measured his shoulders, the way her lips pursued with concentration. There was a heat in his stare, slow-burning and intense, matched only by the way Rosie pretended not to notice, even as the air between them grew heavy with awareness.

She circled behind him, the soft brush of her fingers along his back sending a shiver up his spine—not that she acknowledged it. “Relax your shoulders,” she instructed, voice like silk, smooth and steady.

Alastor exhaled a breath. “The lady has spoken,” he said, his tone aiming for casual but landing somewhere between awed and amused.

“Good,” she replied, jotting something down in the margins of the notebook before stepping close again to measure his waist. “I want you to look perfect.” She looked up at him, her eyes locking onto his, her voice a low purr. “Every inch of this is intentional.”

He didn’t flinch under her gaze—if anything, he leaned into it, ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a smirk. “And what, pray tell, are you intending?”

Rosie tilted her head, pausing for a heartbeat too long as if to emphasize the question hanging between them. Then she smiled—soft, knowing, devastating. “That you walk into that venue and stop every damn breath in the room before you even sing a note.” A final tug of the tape, and she released him, stepping back like nothing had passed between them at all.

But the echo of her fingers, her closeness, her words—they lingered.

For a moment, they stood still—caught in the gravity of their silence, eyes locked and the air thick with the kind of tension that asked not to be broken but deepened. It was electric, unspoken, and yet loud in its intimacy.

“You’re staring,” Rosie whispered, not moving, not needing to. Her voice was low, velvet-smooth, barely brushing the space between them.

Alastor didn’t blink. “Can you blame me?”

Rosie’s gaze softened, but the playful spark never left her eyes. “I suppose not,” she murmured, her fingers brushing lightly against his collar as if adjusting it—though it didn’t need adjusting at all. “I did catch you mid-swoon, after all.”

Alastor let out a quiet laugh, deep and warm, the sound vibrating between them like a note held just a second too long. “Have you now? Do you have any evidence to such a claim? Because let me tell you, Rosie, I don’t—”

His sentence never had the chance to finish.

Alastor's words faltered, his eyes darkening as her hand cupped his cheek, guiding him toward her with a quiet, irresistible pull. He didn’t resist, allowing her to close the space between them, her lips brushing his in the softest of kisses. For a moment, it was nothing more than the briefest of touches, a tantalizing whisper of a kiss that took his breath away.

The tension, however, was palpable. His heart thudded in his chest as her fingers lingered on his jaw, tracing the lines of his face. It was a slow burn, one that set his pulse racing with each passing second.

Rosie’s lips parted slightly, a soft exhale against his mouth, her breath mingling with his, letting the kiss linger and drawing him in with a gentle force that melted the remaining hesitation between them.

Alastor, still frozen for the briefest moment, let out a low, involuntary sound—a hum of approval, as if he couldn’t quite keep himself from responding to her touch. His hand, which had rested at his side, found its way to the small of her back, pulling her closer, just enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body.

When she finally pulled back, her smile was soft and knowing, her eyes flickering with her classic mischievous glint. “Evidence enough for you?” she asked, her voice breathless but smooth.

Alastor stood still, his gaze locked onto her, the kiss still lingering on his lips. A slow, dangerous smile curled at the corners of his mouth, his eyes dark with desire. “I don’t think so.” His voice dropped lower, rougher now, the playful spark still burning in his eyes. “I think you’ve been trying to entice me from the very beginning.”

Rosie chuckled softly, her fingers still tracing the sharp line of his jaw. She lifted her gaze to meet his, her smile mischievous. “Am I succeeding though?” she teased, her voice laced with a challenge.

Alastor’s smile deepened, a predatory gleam now flickering in his eyes. “Quite so,” he purred, pulling her back toward him. The kiss, this time, was slow, deep, filled with a quiet hunger that sent sparks of electricity shooting through both of them. His hands found the curve of her waist, pulling her closer as if he couldn’t get enough.

After quite a while, they found themselves lying together in the dimly lit bed, basking in the aftermath of their heated encounter. The soft glow of the moon through the curtains cast gentle shadows across their tangled forms. Rosie traced idle patterns on Alastor's collarbone, her fingers gliding lazily over his dark skin, enjoying the warmth that still lingered. He, on the other hand, ran his fingers through her long, silky hair, a contented sigh escaping him as he did.

“What a terrible influence you are,” Rosie murmured, her voice low and teasing. “Drawing my attention away from my work.”

Alastor chuckled, his lips curling into a smirk as he shifted slightly to face her, his voice playful yet laced with an unmistakable teasing edge. “I didn’t hear a single complaint from you before. Unless, of course, your protests came in the shape of incoherent whimpers and loud moans, in which case, I apologize for failing to understand your encrypted language.”

Rosie didn’t utter a word at first—but her response came swift and merciless in the form of a pillow smacking Alastor square in the face.

“No one likes a smartass, darling,” she quipped as he let out a surprised laugh beneath the pillow.

“I beg to disagree,” he said, amusement glinting in his eyes as he pulled the pillow away. “You do. In fact, I dare say you may bear some… fondness for me.”

Rosie rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the soft smile curling her lips. She did. And she knew it. That fondness had bloomed quietly but incessantly. The shadow of her ex-husband, the memory of any past suitors—they had been completely eclipsed by this man. This wonderful, terrible, brilliant, prideful, darling, bloodthirsty human. Alastor made her forget them all.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, voice light but honest. “I shall tell you if you take me to see the show.”

Alastor tilted his head at her, raising one brow. “So, this whole evening was a ruse? A clever lure to ensure your place in the backstage?”

“Such a dramatic word—‘ruse,’” Rosie said, snuggling against him with a soft hum. “I prefer to think of it as fair compensation. After all, I am designing the most perfect waistcoat the world has ever seen. One could even say it’s history in the making.”

“Ah, naturally,” Alastor drawled, propping himself up on one elbow as he gazed down at her. “Your ticket to my grand performance paid in thread and seduction.”

She gave him a playful look, but then her tone shifted, growing softer, gentler. “Besides… I’d really like to see you on stage. Truly. I want to see you in your element. In the spotlight where you belong.”

That gave him pause. His grin softened, lost some of its bravado, and the spark in his eyes quieted to something far deeper and sincere. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Of course.” he said simply. “I wouldn’t want to step into that stage without knowing you’re somewhere in the dark, watching.”

Rosie smiled. Her fingers gently traced idle patterns against Alastor’s chest, but her mind was anything but still. Every inch of her screamed not to say it—to hold her tongue, to not blur the lines between them even further. Their time was limited. Borrowed. She knew that. She had always known that.

She couldn’t stay forever.

But hearts are rebellious things. They do not heed logic or caution. And hers—traitorous, foolish, achingly alive—was beating too loudly in her chest to ignore.

“It’s a date then? An official one?” she asked, her voice softer than silk, almost hesitant of his answer.

Alastor looked at her. A quietness settled between them, the kind that words would feel like intruders. Then, with a smile that held none of his usual sharpness, only warmth, he nodded.

“Yes,” he murmured. “It is.”

And right there, from the heights of her happiness, it didn’t matter how fleeting their time together was. Rosie could feel it, deep in her bones—that upcoming night it would be one to remember.

Chapter Text

Agonizing weeks passed before Lilith summoned them again. The waiting had been torture—each day stretched thin with hope and dread. Once more, Edward and Beatrice made their way to their Queen’s office, hearts clutched tightly in uncertainty. Perhaps this time, they would leave with answers. Or at the very least, something else other than silence.

Unlike their last visit, there was no long wait. The moment they stepped inside the waiting room, the secretary stood and, with her usual indifference, gestured them forward. “Her Majesty will see you now.”

The weight of the moment pressed down on them like gravity thickening with every step toward the door. This time, however, Beatrice was different. The moment she heard their names called, she rose from her seat without hesitation. She strode down the long corridor behind the secretary, her steps clipped and swift, the sound of her heels echoing like a drumbeat of restrained impulsivity and determination.

But the secretary, walking at what could only be described as a leisurely pace, blocked her path. Beatrice didn’t slow. She overtook her without a glance, brushing past as if the woman weren’t even there.

“Excuse me?!” the secretary snapped, affronted. “Where do you think you’re going, cutting in front of me?!”

Beatrice didn’t stop right away—but when she did, it was calculated. She turned her head just enough to glance back, not with irritation but with the cold precision of a predator sizing up prey. Her dark eyes, once warm and weary, now gleamed with something colder. Sharper. The kind of look that didn't just threaten but promised consequences.

The secretary froze mid-step, a nervous shiver twitching through her spine.

Behind them, Edward chuckled under his breath, the sound low and amused. “I wouldn’t provoke her if I were you,” he advised, “It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”

Beatrice said nothing. She simply turned back and resumed her pace, unbothered and unchallenged, the tension in the air parting around her.

She and Edward reached the heavy doors and knocked, the sound echoing crisply down the corridor. Behind them, the secretary let out an irritated groan but wisely held her tongue, turning sharply on her heel and disappearing down the hallway. They were alone now.

A moment later, Lilith’s voice answered from within—commanding yet cordial, as composed as ever.

“Enter.”

They stepped inside.

The office looked just as it had during their last visit: elegant, dimly lit, and cloaked in the same quiet authority that seemed to seep from the very walls. Lilith, as usual, sat behind her grand desk, poised and regal, though there was a contemplative air about her this time—a sense of weight behind her stillness. But she wasn’t alone.

Standing beside her was a tall, imposing figure—an owl-like demon with four deep crimson eyes that shimmered faintly in the low light. His frame was long and dignified, draped in an ornate, regal attire. He radiated nobility with a quiet intensity, marking him unmistakably as a member of the powerful Ars Goetia.

His sharp gaze fell immediately on Beatrice and Edward, assessing them—half curiously, half cautiously.

“Your Majesty,” Edward greeted with a respectful bow. Beatrice followed, bowing her head low. “Your Highness.”

“Thank you for seeing us once again, Your Majesty,” Beatrice added. “And we thank you in advance for any help you might offer us, Your Highness.”

Lilith gave a small nod. “I believe some introductions are in order. After much consideration, I brought your request not to just any member of the Goetia family, but to Prince Stolas. He has both the temperament and the empathy that your case requires—and the knowledge.”

Stolas inclined his head gracefully toward Lilith, his voice warm and elegant. “As always, my Queen, your wishes are my duty. But I am honoured by your trust.”

He then turned his attention towards Edward and Beatrice, his crimson eyes softening slightly. “That being said, I shall do my best to assist you if that will bring you any peace.”

His words were calm, yet there was an unspoken authority in the air as he spoke—an assurance that, despite the precariousness of their request, he would see it through if it was within his power.

“Thank you once again,” Edward said, his voice steady but laced with quiet urgency. “We just want to learn the truth about our daughter. Nothing matters more to us than her—nothing ever has.”

Beatrice stepped forward slightly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if to contain the storm of emotion within. “We don’t ask for favours lightly, Your Highness. But if there’s even the smallest chance she’s still out there, we need to know. Not just for ourselves, but for her. She deserves that much.”

Stolas regarded them both for a long moment, his expression thoughtful, his crimson eyes flickering with restrained power. Then he gave a slow, solemn nod. “Then I shall begin. Your Majesty, may I?”

Lilith inclined her head in approval. “Proceed.”

With a graceful sweep of his coat, Stolas stepped away from her side and into the open space in the centre of the office. The air around him shifted as he summoned his grimoire—an ancient, imposing tome that shimmered with arcane symbols. It hovered before him, pages already fluttering open on their own, glowing faintly with a soft, otherworldly light.

“What is your daughter’s name?” Stolas asked without looking up, his voice lower now, threaded with focus.

“Rose,” Beatrice answered quickly, her voice firm despite the emotion trembling beneath it. “But everyone always calls her Rosie.”

At the sound of the name, Stolas found the page he needed. He placed one hand over the text and began to chant softly in an ancient tongue. The room darkened as tendrils of magic rose like smoke from the grimoire, curling around him in elegant, slow spirals. The temperature dropped a fraction as the power intensified, brushing along the walls like a passing storm.

Stolas’ eyes dimmed, then glowed brighter, consumed by a trance as the magic deepened. Lilith observed silently, her expression unreadable but alert, while Beatrice clutched Edward’s hand tightly, her breath caught in her chest.

Time seemed to stretch unnaturally, each second dragging with unbearable weight as the office remained cloaked in silence. The glow of magic around Stolas pulsed gently, casting strange shadows across the room. For Beatrice and Edward, it felt like an eternity. Then, suddenly, everything stilled.

Stolas froze in silence, his posture rigid, his gaze blank and unblinking as his crimson eyes stared into the void—no longer reading but seeing.

Lilith’s brow lifted ever so slightly in response. The subtle shift in her expression didn’t go unnoticed by Edward, who felt his heart quicken. Something had happened.

Finally, the magic dissipated like mist. The room slowly warmed again as the grimoire snapped shut on its own, hovering for a beat before gently lowering into Stolas’ waiting hand.

“So?” Beatrice asked, breathless. “Anything?”

Stolas turned to them, the seriousness in his eyes softening into something far gentler. A small, satisfied smile appeared in his features.

“I found her,” he said simply, reverently. “You were right. She’s in the human world.”

Beatrice gasped and covered her mouth, while Edward gripped the edge of Lilith’s desk, stunned. Their worst fears—and their deepest hopes—had just been confirmed in the same breath.

“I don’t think I’m wrong in guessing that we cannot simply go and get her, correct?” Edward asked, his voice steady despite the storm of emotion behind it.

“Indeed, you are correct, sir,” Stolas replied, his tone soft but firm. “The veil between our worlds is not so easily crossed—especially not without risk. There are rules to follow and protections to be put in place. Simply barging into the human world could jeopardize far more than just your reunion.”

Edward nodded solemnly.

“Please,” Stolas continued, “give me some time to make the proper arrangements. I will need to gather everything that is necessary and secure a passage that ensures no harm comes to any of us—including your daughter. I promise I will do everything within my power.”

Beatrice reached for Edward’s hand, gripping it tightly. “We understand. Just knowing she’s alive… it changes everything.”

Lilith inclined her head toward them, her voice calm but resolute. “You’ve waited this long. A little longer, I think, will be worth what’s to come. She’ll soon be home.”

There was a heavy silence, but this time it was full of hope.

The soft hum of conversation and distant tuning of instruments filtered through the thick walls, a muffled prelude to the night ahead. Alastor’s dressing room was tucked away behind heavy red velvet curtains and down a private hallway—a harbour of stillness amid the rising pulse of anticipation that filled the venue.

The room itself was small but richly furnished. A long, ornate mirror framed by golden bulbs cast a warm glow over the space, reflecting the deep mahogany of the panelled walls. The air smelt faintly of cedarwood and old fabric, mingling with the sharp tang of hair pomade and stage dust. His vest—Rosie’s masterpiece—hung neatly on a padded hanger, catching the light with a shimmer of crimson and thread work so intricate it looked almost alive.

Alastor stood before the mirror, hands resting on the dressing table. There was a rare stillness in him. Not the usual buzzing energy he often carried, but a quiet, focused tension. He was on the verge of something, he could tell.

Rosie watched from behind, her arms folded loosely across her chest, herself looking like a vision. Her gown shimmered softly under the golden light—deep burgundy velvet overlaid with sheer black beading that caught the light with every subtle movement. The dress clung delicately to her form, the square neckline framed by short sleeves and intricate embroidery, while the full-length skirt flowed down in graceful layers, each step revealing a hint of dark, glittering lace. A slim black sash cinched at her waist, and her hair was pinned in soft waves, a few tendrils left free to frame her face.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a painting, all rich colour and old-world glamour. A ghost of a smile curved her lips as she took in the sight of him.

“You’re quiet,” he observed, catching her gaze through the mirror.

“Just observing,” Rosie replied with a knowing smile, arms loosely crossed as she leaned against the vanity. “Before the applause rolls in like thunder and everything changes. You’ll be larger than life—but you already know that.”

Alastor’s grin curved slowly, mischievous and warm. “Your voice is the only one I prefer over mine to say such things about me.”

“The highest of compliments,” Rosie chuckled, shaking her head. “You charmer.”

He turned slightly, eyes lingering on her with a softer gleam but said nothing.

She stepped forward slowly, her heels quiet against the floor, until she stood just behind him. “Are you breathing?” she asked softly, her hand on his shoulders.

He let out a slow, deliberate exhale. “Barely.”

Rosie reached past him, picked up the waistcoat, and held it out gently. “Then let’s make sure you look the part, darling.”

Their eyes met in the mirror, and for a moment, the world outside the dressing room—the buzzing theatre, the crowd, the curtain waiting to rise—fell away. There was only them, suspended in that shared breath, wrapped in a quiet reverence for the moment.

“You look…” Alastor began, his voice lower, touched with awe as he turned to face her fully. He reached for the vest Rosie held out and slipped it on carefully, smoothing the fabric over his chest. “Perfect. Even more than usual. If that’s even possible.”

Rosie arched a brow, a soft smirk playing on her lips. “Careful, you’ll give me the wrong idea—thinking you might actually be nervous.”

Alastor chuckled as he fastened the vest. “Me? Nervous? Never.” A brief pause, then a glint of mischief in his eye. “But if I go down in flames tonight, at least I’ll look absolutely magnificent doing it.”

She stepped closer, reaching to adjust the lapel with delicate fingers, her touch lingering longer than necessary. “You won’t go down. You were made for this stage.”

A beat passed between them—heavy with unspoken words, the kind that sat in the chest and ached to be spoken but chose instead to remain suspended in the quiet. Then, a sharp knock and a voice from beyond the door broke the spell.

“Ready in five, sir,” a stageboy called out, his tone quick but respectful.

Alastor glanced toward the door, then back at Rosie. For just a heartbeat, the mask of confidence faltered—subtly, almost imperceptibly—but she caught it. She always did. Behind the dazzling smile and polished charm was the man who had fought tooth and nail for every inch of this moment.

“I’ll be watching,” Rosie whispered, her voice a quiet tether. She took his hand, warm and steady, and pressed a kiss into his palm, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. “Go set the world on fire, darling. And don’t you dare look back.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—deeper than mere affection, something unsaid but overwhelming. He nodded once, resolute, then squared his shoulders and turned toward the door. The spotlight was waiting.

Rosie watched him leave, his figure disappearing through the door, but not before he threw her one last lingering glance. It was brief, but it carried a weight she couldn’t shake. Then the door clicked shut, leaving her standing alone in the quiet dressing room.

She lingered in the stillness for a moment, her hand resting against the edge of the mirror. The gentle thrum of the theatre beyond was a distant hum, but in the silence, her thoughts were impossibly loud. She had told herself over and over that she wouldn’t allow herself to fall too deep, to let herself get swept away. She didn’t belong here. With him. But now, standing there, the quiet truth hung heavy in her chest.

She had fallen. Harder than she ever meant to. She had known it for a while. Each moment with him—every glance, every subtle touch, every smile and burst of laughter, even every frustration and every late night kiss… had only drawn her deeper into something far more dangerous than mere affection. She was close—so close to surrendering entirely. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t meant to be. They were worlds apart, bound by fleeting time and impossible fate.

Rosie closed her eyes briefly, her reflection blurring in the mirror. With a soft exhale, she shook her head and tried to steady her pulse, pushing down the quiet ache blooming behind her ribs. He was on stage now, where he belonged—bright, untouchable, larger than life. And she... she would watch him in the shadows, while she could.

Until…

Rosie’s fingers curled slightly against the mirror’s frame. The thought returned, uninvited but insistent. Until. Until it can no longer be. Until he tells you to stay once again and you can no longer indulge his whim. Until you are forced break his heart.

She sighed deeply, already knowing what needed to happen.

The conversation could no longer be delayed—not hidden behind playful banter, nor softened with gentle requests. No matter how much it hurt, she would have to insist on what had to happen sooner or later.

Noise began to swell from the theatre beyond—the roaring sound of cheers rising like a tide as Alastor’s voice echoed through the rafters, charming and electric as ever, greeting the audience with the effortless charisma he wore like a second skin.

It had started.

And then, not much after, came the music.

His saxophone was unmistakable. Smooth, brazen and utterly alive. It didn’t just play; it sang, it prowled, it commanded the room like a living thing. Rosie closed her eyes for a moment, letting the notes curl around her like smoke, warm and familiar and devastatingly beautiful.

She exhaled. Whatever came next, this moment—this sound—was his. And she would carry it with her, always.

Rosie was about to slip into the shadows near the stage to watch him, just as she had promised, when she felt it—a sudden shift in the air, like the hum before a storm. The atmosphere in the dressing room thickened, and then, before her eyes, a portal bloomed open with a sound like reality tearing at the seams.

She froze, her breath caught in her throat, watching in stunned disbelief as the swirling void gave way to a tall, regal figure. An owl-like demon stepped through, his plumage sleek and eyes of a piercing shade of crimson. He surveyed the room calmly, curiously, until his gaze locked with hers.

“Ah!” he exclaimed with a pleased lilt, spreading his arms slightly as if to embrace the moment. “I knew I chose the correct location to open the portal—marvellous! You must be Rosie, correct?”

“I…” Rosie blinked, the shock anchoring her feet to the floor. “Yes. I…”

“Fantastic! Please wait just a moment,” he said brightly, disappearing back through the portal without further explanation.

Rosie barely had time to gather her scattered thoughts, when the portal shimmered again—and this time, he wasn’t alone. Two familiar figures followed in his wake.

Beatrice took a single, trembling step forward. “Rosie?…” Her voice was barely a whisper, eyes already brimming with tears.

“Mama… Papa…” Rosie’s voice broke on the last word, disbelief and a thousand other emotions colliding all at once.

Edward stood tall beside her, though his expression was unguarded, his eyes locked onto his daughter like a man seeing the sun after a long winter.

Rosie’s lips parted, but no words came. For the second time in one night, she was rendered speechless. Only this time, it wasn’t magic or shock. It was the sudden, overwhelming presence of something she had quietly longed for—home.

Before she knew it, Rosie was in her parents’ arms, pulled into a fierce embrace that erased time and distance in a single heartbeat. Her face buried against her mother’s shoulder, her breath hitched, and tears threatened to flow as the warmth and scent of home enveloped her. She clung tightly to her father’s jacket, her fingers knotting into the familiar fabric like a child who never wanted to let go again.

Beatrice cradled her daughter’s head gently, murmuring soft, soothing words into her hair, as if trying to make up for every moment lost. Edward’s arms wrapped securely around them both, holding them together as though the world might try to pull them apart again if he didn’t.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Rosie whispered, the words trembling against her mother’s collarbone.

“We were never going to stop looking,” Edward said softly. “Not until we found you.”

The room, once charged with the electric hum of stage anticipation, now held only the quiet reverence of reunion—raw, real, and long overdue.

“Darling… Come. Let’s go home. You’re free,” Beatrice said gently, brushing Rosie’s hair behind her ear.

“Mama, I…” Rosie began, the words thick in her throat. “I can’t…”

“You can’t?” Edward repeated, his tone shifting from confusion to concern. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I’m bound to someone… I…”

Edward blinked slowly, his expression hardening. “Pardon? Some human had the gall to bind you?”

“Your Highness!” Beatrice turned sharply toward Stolas, desperation rising in her voice. “Can you undo this?”

Rosie, still clutching her father’s coat, finally processed the presence before her—the regal bearing, the tall, slender frame, the crimson eyes and aristocratic voice. Ars Goetia. Of course. That explained the portal, the magic, the authority.

“Of course I can,” Stolas said with a mild frown, “although I would love to know how a human managed to bind you.”

“He had a book…” Rosie answered, her voice quiet.

“Ugh!...” Stolas groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Of course he did. This probably means some careless member of my family dropped their grimoire in the human world and conveniently neglected to inform anyone. I’ll have to handle this matter before—”

His sentence paused, trailing just long enough for Rosie to look up and meet his gaze. Her lips moved without sound, mouthing the words:

Last one. Please. Please. Only the last one.

Her eyes, wide and full of meaning, begged him to understand.

Stolas, without missing a beat, resumed his statement, his tone unchanged.

“—before anything else gets out of control.”

Stolas stood before Rosie, his crimson eyes focused intently on her, his aura swirling with quiet power, seeing what others couldn’t see. His expression was calm, though there was a sharp edge to his gaze as he studied the faint, magical chain that connected her to another. The energy was thick, palpable, and with a simple flick of his wrist, the air around them hummed with dark energy.

He could sense the binding magic—strong, deliberate, the signature of a powerful connection. The little human, whoever he was, had put effort into it, no doubt. How quaint. Stolas narrowed his eyes as he reached out mentally, preparing to unravel the chain.

First, he touched it. The magic was fresh, raw, and potent, its traces resonating strongly, vibrating in the air between Rosie and whoever had bound her. His fingers wrapped around the bind, ready to sever it, but as he reached deeper into the magic, his senses shifted, and he froze for a moment.

There was something else. He didn’t expect this. His brows furrowed as his mind processed the information. There was a second bind. Older. Hidden beneath the first.

His gaze flicked toward Rosie, her eyes locking with his, silent, but of steeled resolution. Realization struck him then. She only wanted one of the binds undone—the recent one. Now her strange plea was making sense. For some reason she didn’t want the oldest one to be touched nor for her parents to know about the existence of said bound.  

Stolas could read between the lines of her expression, in the way her posture stiffened ever so slightly. Interesting. He would love to hear the story behind it afterwards.

With a strong, swift tug of his hand, Stolas broke the chain.

The magic hissed through the air like a dying ember, snapping with a sharp, unseen recoil. Rosie felt it immediately—an invisible weight yanked from her chest. She gasped softly, clutching instinctively at her sternum as if something had been torn out. It hadn’t hurt, not exactly… but the absence was jarring.

It was gone.

The bind. Severed.

And if she had felt it this deeply, then Alastor had too. That kind of bond didn’t dissolve quietly. Not without echo.

“Is it done?” Edward asked, his voice steady but strained with hope.

Stolas gave a small, satisfied nod. “Your daughter is free.”

Beatrice exhaled, her hand flying to her mouth as she blinked back tears. Edward looked stunned, as though the words took a moment to truly register.

But Rosie stood still. Her breathing had evened out, but her gaze was far away, turned inward—toward what was no longer there… and toward what remained.

The lights were blinding. The roar of the crowd swelled and fell like a tide, their cheers and whistles bouncing off the theatre walls. On stage, Alastor stood at the heart of it all, saxophone in hand, his body swaying ever so slightly to the rhythm pouring from Duke Ellington’s piano just behind him.

He was living it—breathing it. Pure, sheer ecstasy running through his veins.

Notes flowed like velvet from his instrument, rich and golden, each one coiling in the air like smoke. The music was alive, electric, and Alastor was lost in it, letting it carry him further, higher—

Then it hit.

Like a wire snapping taut across his chest.

Mid-note, his breath caught. The sound faltered for the briefest second—only a trained ear would have noticed. His fingers hesitated on the keys. A chill sliced down his spine.

Gone.

The bind.

He couldn’t see it, couldn’t touch it, but he felt it. Her presence that had lingered with him even when she wasn’t near. Severed.

A heartbeat passed, deafening in its silence.

He blinked, his hands moving again as if on muscle memory alone, finishing the song. But his mind was elsewhere, far from the roaring theatre or Duke’s masterful playing.

He knew. He didn’t know how, but something had happened. She was no longer bound to him.

The final note came, long and aching, and Alastor held it with everything in him—pain, confusion, and that familiar, maddening yearning. He felt like choking. Like screaming.

Then the crowd erupted. A raging success.

He bowed with a smile, effortless and charming as always. But inside, something had cracked.

Rosie remained rooted in place, despite the waiting portal and the presence of an Ars Goetia prince prepared to escort her home. Her parents watched her expectantly, but she made no move to follow.

“I can’t leave without saying something to him,” she said quietly, her gaze fixed on the door.

“You owe that human nothing!” Beatrice snapped, her voice low but sharp. “He practically kidnapped you for three years!”

“It wasn’t like that, Mama… He summoned me by accident.”

“So he claims,” Edward interjected, his tone cool. “Regardless of how it began, the bind between you two was very much intentional.”

Rosie turned to face them, her voice steady despite the storm behind her eyes. “Please. Just let me speak with him. One last time.”

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps echoed down the corridor—barely audible, yet unmistakable. Rosie’s breath caught. She knew that walk. Alastor never made much noise when he moved.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the weight of everything catching up to her in one crashing wave. This was it. The moment had come—and with it, the reckoning.

She stood a little taller, smoothing the fabric of her gown with trembling hands, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Whatever happened next, she had to face it. All of it.

The door creaked open, and from the shadowed hallway, Alastor stepped into the room. His silhouette was sharp against the soft dressing room light, the glint in his eyes unreadable—a storm held behind his hazel eyes. There was concern there, unmistakable, but it was layered beneath something harder. Wounded pride. Betrayal. A tension coiled in his jaw as his gaze landed squarely on Rosie.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just looked at her trying to piece together what had happened, and what it meant for them now. There was a flicker of something behind his eyes: not just confusion, but also something harsher. Hurt.

Then his gaze shifted, and he realized they weren’t alone.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he turned his head, registering the presence of three unfamiliar figures by the portal. His posture straightened, sharpening instinctively like a blade being drawn.

He closed the door behind him with a calm, deliberate motion, his eyes slowly sweeping across the room. First, the tall, owl-like demon—clearly nobility, given his attire. Then his gaze shifted to the other two: a man with dark, wavy hair and the composed bearing of someone accustomed to command, and a woman with striking silver hair whose eyes were sharp and unwelcoming, fixed on him like a dagger poised to strike.

The resemblance was undeniable. They were her blood.

“Rosie, dearest,” he said at last, his voice smooth and collected, though absent of its usual amused lilt. “You should have warned me that we had guests.” His eyes lingered a moment longer on her parents, then drifted to the portal still humming behind them. “How… unexpected.”

A quiet tension settled in the room, thick enough to cut.

“Alastor… I…” Rosie began, her voice faltering.

“No need for introductions,” he interrupted softly, his eyes never leaving the couple flanking her. “I can tell they’re your parents.” A tight smile curved his lips. “A pleasure.”

“No doubt it is,” Edward replied coolly, folding his arms. “I’m afraid, however, we cannot say the sentiment is mutual.”

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed, her tone like frost. “A curious way for you to be addressing our daughter—so familiar, so… endearing, after what you’ve done.”

Alastor’s expression barely shifted, but something darker flickered behind his gaze. “Casual, madam, is hardly the word I’d choose. And as for what I’ve done…” He looked at Rosie then, softer, almost searching. “That depends entirely on who’s telling the story.”

Rosie took a breath that felt like it might break her ribs.

“Alastor… I have to go home.”

It was as if the air thickened, stopped moving. Alastor blinked once, twice. Slowly. Then he laughed—soft, disbelieving, hollow.

“Home?” he echoed, like he hadn’t heard the word in years. “Rosie, darling… You are home.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. He stepped forward.

“You can’t… All this—” he gestured vaguely toward her parents, toward the portal, toward Stolas and her parents, “—it’s overwhelming, I understand. But let’s not say anything we’ll regret.”

“Alastor—”

“You said you’d watch me perform,” he pressed on, voice rising just a little, the edge of something sharper, more frantic creeping in. “You promised. You said you’d be there. You told me—” His voice faltered. “You can’t leave. I…”

She reached for his hand. “I have to… Please, don’t make this—”

“You don’t have to go.” he snapped—not loudly, but firm enough to still her. “I thought…”

“My life is in Hell!” she said. “That’s my world. With my parents. They thought I was dead, Alastor.”

He turned away from her like the words physically struck him, running a hand through his hair. When he turned back, his smile was gone.

“So that’s it,” he said, voice flat. “All this… I was just… a chapter. A story you survived.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t reduce it to something cheap. I… I l—”

“Don’t you dare. Don't you dare to finish that sentence.” Alastor cut in, his voice suddenly sharp, cracking through the room like a whip. His eyes blazed, and for a moment, she saw something raw behind them—betrayal, pain, disbelief. “Go then.”

Silence swallowed them whole.

She reached for his hand again, trembling, desperate—but he stepped back, out of her reach, as if her touch would scorch him.

“I wish it were different,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“Really?” he bit out, quieter now, but laced with bitterness. “Because it seems to me you made your choice without much hesitation.” His smile twisted—mocking, but empty. “But that’s quite alright. Run along then, Rosie. You’re free, after all. Go enjoy it.”

Behind her, the portal shimmered—a gateway humming with power and promise. Her parents stood at its edge, watching, waiting.

“Come, darling,” Beatrice said softly, reaching out to gently take her hand.

Rosie looked at her mother, eyes clouded with hurt and uncertainty. Her fingers hesitated in Beatrice’s grasp, as if her body was being pulled in two directions at once. She turned—heart pounding—to look back at Alastor.

But he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, the soft sound echoing like a final note of a song left unfinished.

A quiet breath escaped her lips, shaky and small. Her chest ached—not just with grief, but with the hollow absence he left in the room the moment he walked out. No dramatic words. No final plea. Just silence. And a grudge.

And yet… it was louder than anything else.

Rosie lowered her gaze, letting her mother lead her toward the portal. One step at a time, she walked away—carrying with her the weight of what they could have been.

Alastor walked back through the corridor, the echo of his footsteps nearly drowned by the roar of applause filtering in from the theatre. His smile had returned—sharp, smooth, and perfectly in place. Not a crack on the surface. To anyone watching, he looked every bit the radiant performer returning to claim the spotlight.

But inside?...

Inside he was splintering. Breaking. Shattering.

He felt nothing, he felt everything. His chest was hollow and burning, like something vital had been carved out of him and replaced with static. Rage stirred beneath his skin—aimless, directionless. He wasn’t sure who he was angry at. Her? Himself? The universe for giving him a taste of something real only to rip it away? To be cut deeply only to be left bleeding?

She had chosen to go.

She had looked him in the eye and left.

The doors to the stage parted. Light flooded over him, golden and warm. The crowd rose to its feet in thunderous anticipation. They didn’t see the man—they saw the birth of the myth. The legend. The name.

And that’s what he gave them.

His shadow stretched long behind him as he stepped into the glow of centre stage, his grin gleaming under the lights. The saxophone lifted to his lips, and he played. Gods, he played like his soul was on fire. Every note was fury. Every melody, heartbreak. Every breath he poured into the brass bled the pain he could never say out loud.

They thought it was brilliance.

They didn’t know it was grief.

But the show must go on.

It always did.

Chapter Text

The soft crack of teacups being set down echoed through Rosie’s quiet sitting room. Outside, the skies of the Pride Ring burned with their eternal crimson hue, casting a golden-red glow through the tall windows. Inside, the atmosphere was still—comfortable, but taut with unspoken questions.

Stolas sat across from Rosie, legs crossed elegantly, one elongated finger gently circling the rim of his porcelain cup. His scarlet eyes were observant but not unkind.

“I hope the tea is to your taste, Your Highness,” Rosie said politely, her posture straight, voice even.

“Very much so. Thank you, Miss.” His tone was pleasant, but there was something pointed beneath the civility.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” she asked with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Stolas’s expression remained calm, but the corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly. He appreciated the subtle dance.

“Mere curiosity,” he replied. “I’m afraid it’s a flaw of mine I’ve long since accepted.”

“I can’t fault you for that,” Rosie said quietly. “In your position, I would be curious too.”

“Good,” he said, placing his cup gently back onto the saucer. “Then you’ll understand why I’ve come. I abided by your request—kept your secret, untouched the older bind I found. But now, I would very much like to know what, exactly, I was asked to protect.”

His crimson gaze was sharp now—piercing, but not cruel.

There was a pause, and then Rosie folded her hands in her lap. Her voice was calm, but there was a tremor buried deep beneath it.

“Alastor thought he bound me to him,” she said at last. “But the truth is… I did it first.”

Stolas tilted his head, the motion birdlike and precise. “Go on.”

“He is the one bound to me,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “And he doesn’t know. He never has.”

Stolas blinked slowly, his expression unreadable now—neither surprised nor disapproving, merely… intrigued.

“I gave him my blood,” she added. “Not much. Just enough.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Why?”

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze. There was no hesitation in her answer.

“Because one day, he’ll die. He’s mortal. And when that day comes, Hell will claim him. That’s a certainty.”

She paused, then continued more quietly.

“And his sins are many. He’s prideful, yes—but also greedy and wrathful… He could end up anywhere. I just needed to ensure that he ends up where I am.”

Stolas gave a low hum. “So,” he said, “you rigged the system.”

Rosie’s lips curled into a soft, melancholy smile. “That’s what I do. I play the game. And I make sure to win.”

He regarded her for a long moment, tapping a finger idly against his cup. “That,” he said eventually, “is the kind of ruthless sentimentality I’d expect from someone far older.” Then, his tone shifted, slightly more grave. “Are you prepared for the consequences of this choice? Binding him like that means he will not pass through the Purgatory Trials.”

“I love him.” Rosie said softly. “I’m ready.”

Stolas’ gaze softened, and a faint breath left him. For a moment, the prince looked almost wistful.

“I suspected as much,” he said.

Rosie nodded.

Stolas rose gracefully from his seat, adjusting the fine hem of his coat. “Well then,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of both knowledge and discretion, “may fate be kinder to you than it usually is to those who love too deeply in this realm.”

Rosie stood as well, her hands clasped gently in front of her. “Thank you, Your Highness. For everything.”

He gave her a slight bow, elegant and sincere. “You’re welcome, Miss Rosie. And don’t worry—I’ll keep your secret. Providing that it doesn’t bring any hinderances in the future.”

With that, he turned toward the door, his silhouette framed in the dim, rose-hued light spilling from the windows.

Then he was gone, leaving Rosie alone in the quiet, heart steady despite the ache, despite the tears threatening to flow once again. She would wait for him, it didn’t matter for how long.

Alastor’s wings had long since burned to dust, but she loved him like something holy—and she wanted to believe that he did too.