Chapter 2

"Because I'm the only person in this city who knows why your boss is crying like a toddler," I said.

My voice cracked. Dammit. I cleared my throat and leaned a fraction of an inch closer into the steel. "You want to know why the strongest monster in the Eternal Night is having a mental breakdown? I can tell you. But not while I'm bleeding out on the floor."

Sloane didn't move. Her eyes were shards of obsidian—cold, sharp, zero mercy. She was too close. I could smell ozone and old rain on her armor, and beneath that, the metallic tang of dried blood. Her breath was steady. Mine was a mess.

"You're a human," she spat. The word was a curse. "A fragile little ape who stumbled into a realm where everything eats your kind for breakfast. You don't have a 'why.' You have a death wish."

"I have a degree in clinical psychology," I snapped. "Which, here, is basically a superpower. Look at him, Sloane. Really look at him."

I gestured with a shaking hand toward the massive, shuddering form behind us. The monster was whimpering. It would've been pathetic if he couldn't flatten a building with one swipe.

Sloane shifted her gaze. Just a flicker. But I saw it. Her shoulders tightened. Her grip on the knife wasn't aggression—it was frustration. She wasn't just serving this thing. She was exhausted by him.

"He's not sick," I whispered, dropping into the low, soothing tone I used on panicked CEOs in Manhattan. "He's drowning. And you're just watching him sink because you think strength means staying silent."

The blade jerked. A tiny nick opened on my neck. A single drop of blood bloomed, hot and sticky.

"Shut up," she warned. "You don't know anything about us."

"I know you're terrified," I said. "Not of me. Of the fact that if he loses it, you're the one who has to clean up the mess. Or worse... you're the one who has to put him down."

The mask slipped. Her eyes widened. For one heartbeat, the lethal commander vanished, and I saw a girl tired of carrying the world on her back.

The air between us shifted. It wasn't just a threat anymore. It was a wire stretched to the breaking point, vibrating with everything she wasn't saying.

Then she shoved me. Hard.

I slammed against the stone wall, air rushing out of my lungs in a wheeze. She didn't pull the knife away. She pinned me there, her forearm crushing my chest, the blade resting right under my jaw.

I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. The oppressive weight of her.

"You think you're clever?" she murmured. Her voice was a dangerous vibration. "You think you can play head-games and I'll just let you walk out?"

"I'm not asking to walk out," I gasped. "I'm offering a service. Your boss is rotting from the inside out. Magic doesn't just break the world here, Sloane. It breaks the mind. He's having a psychotic break. You can't fight that with a sword."

Sloane leaned in. Her lips were inches from my ear.

"And what happens if you're lying?" she whispered. "What if you're just a spy using big words to keep your head attached to your shoulders?"

"Then you kill me," I said. "Simple. Low risk. But if I'm right? You get your commander back. You get a boss who can actually give orders instead of screaming at the walls."

She paused. I could feel her pulse thrumming through her arm. She was weighing it. She still held all the cards, but I had the only currency that mattered: a way out of her nightmare.

"He doesn't trust humans," Sloane said. She didn't move away. The proximity was suffocating—a mix of terror and an electric, unwanted spark. "He'll tear you apart the moment you stop being useful."

"That's why I need a contract," I replied with a jagged smile. "Not a magic one. Professional. I don't work for free, and I don't work without security. You're my security."

Sloane let out a sharp laugh. Like breaking glass. "Security? You want *me* to protect you?"

"I want the person who knows exactly how he breaks to be the one keeping me alive," I countered. "Besides, you're addicted to the drama. You want to see if I can do it."

She stared at me. The silence grew thick, smelling of monster musk and my own fear. Her gaze dropped to my lips for a split second—not desire, but a calculation. Like she was deciding where to cut first.

Then, she stepped back.

The pressure vanished. I slumped against the wall, sliding down until my ass hit the cold floor. I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Fine," she said, her voice returning to that flat, military monotone. "But get this straight, human. You aren't a guest. You aren't a doctor. You're a tool. The moment you stop working, I'll throw you to the hounds in the lower pits. They haven't eaten in three days."

"Fair enough," I muttered, rubbing my neck. "Now, about the office. I'm gonna need a chair. A comfortable one. And maybe lighting that doesn't make me feel like I'm in a dungeon."

Sloane looked at me like I'd suggested a stroll through a minefield. "You *are* in a dungeon, idiot."

"Exactly. Which is why a lamp would help the vibe."

She didn't smile. She just turned toward the monster, who was now watching us with wide, confused eyes.

"He's yours for now," Sloane announced, hand still on her hilt. "But if he so much as sneezes on you, I'm not coming to save you. I'm coming to finish the job."

I looked at the mountain of muscle and madness, then back at the woman who wanted to skin me alive. I was a disgraced therapist with no license, no money, and a high probability of being eaten.

"Great," I whispered. "Just like my last residency."

Sloane whipped around. "What was that?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just... thinking about billing rates."

She scoffed and gestured toward the heavy iron door. "Move. Before I decide the hounds are hungrier than the boss is crazy."

I scrambled up, legs still shaking. As I passed her, our shoulders brushed. A brief, accidental contact that felt like a jolt of electricity. She stiffened, a flicker of confusion crossing her face, before she shoved me forward with a sneer.

We hit the corridors. Dim. Oppressive. The walls were sweating black ichor. Every shadow moved. Every echo sounded like a scream.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To the only room in this palace where the screaming is muffled," she replied. "Your new office."

She stopped abruptly in front of a door reinforced with jagged crystals and heavy chains. She didn't open it. She turned to me, her face lit by a sickly purple glow.

"One last thing," she said, her voice dropping. "If you try to manipulate him—if you use whatever filth you're planting in his head to get power—I won't kill you quickly."

I opened my mouth, but she didn't wait. She reached into her belt and pulled out a heavy, blackened iron collar. It wasn't jewelry. It was a restraint, etched with red runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.

"Put it on," she commanded.

I stared at the metal. "You've got to be kidding. I'm a professional."

"You're a liability," Sloane snapped. "Put it on, or I'll use the knife to make a hole in your neck."

I looked at the collar, then at her eyes. No bluff. She was ready.

I reached out, my fingers brushing hers as I took the iron. It was freezing, sucking the warmth right out of my skin. I held the metal above my throat, the runes humming with predatory energy.

"Wait," I said. "If I wear this, what does it actually do?"

Sloane's lips curled into a small, cruel smile. "It means I own your breath. And the moment I feel you lying..."