Chapter 7 · The Traitor's Needle

"Don't you dare move a muscle," Cassian hissed, his voice vibrating directly against Sylvia's spine. He didn't just speak; he resonated. Since the binding, his voice felt like a physical weight, a low frequency that made the marrow in her bones ache.

Sylvia froze, her needle poised a fraction of an inch above the shimmering, jagged seam of his shoulder. She could feel his heat—not just skin warmth, but a simmering, abyssal radiation that threatened to scorch her fingertips.

"I'm trying to stop you from leaking soul-essence all over the floor, you idiot," she snapped, though she didn't pull away. "If this stitch slips, we both go into cardiac arrest. Do you want to find out what the afterlife looks like for a half-sewn king?"

Cassian shifted, his chest pressing hard against her back. He was shirtless, the cold metal of the lab table biting into his skin, but where they touched, it was like pressing against a furnace. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.

"You're shaking, Sylvia. Is it fear? Or are you finally realizing who you've let inside your ribcage?"

"It's caffeine and a lack of sleep," she lied, her voice tight.