Ronan decided to move. The apartment was miserable enough on its own, but worse, it was the most obvious place any self-respecting investigator would check first.

He wasn’t going to wait around for that.

So he kept it simple. He took the furniture the landlord had abandoned; no one had checked the room in weeks anyway, and hauled it to a more discreet location Sarael found using her shadows.

An abandoned house. Not the kind of place where rogue hunters gathered, nothing that obvious. Just a forgotten shack wedged into a tight neighborhood, the sort of building people walked past without ever noticing.

"This is it?"

He surveyed the new room. Dirty beyond reason, but still better than where he’d been. The house was shaped like an L. One end held his bed, the other a cramped kitchen, with a door leading to a bathroom barely larger than a closet.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

"The landlord definitely won’t miss his stuff," he muttered, settling onto the edge of the mattress. "Didn’t even bother checking the room while I was gone."

But the constant moving of furniture with her shadows had taken its toll on Sarael. This world had daylight, real daylight, and working in it had drained her.

She materialized in front of him without warning, her dark clothing shimmering once before dissolving entirely. Naked, exhausted, she crawled toward him and straddled his lap, her arms draping weakly over his shoulders.

"I’m tired," she whispered. "I need energy..."

Ronan’s hands found her waist on instinct, steadying her as she slumped against him. Her skin was cool to the touch, cooler than usual, and the shadows that normally curled around her ankles were thin and lethargic.

"You pushed yourself too hard," he said quietly.

"Had to." She nuzzled into the crook of his neck. "You needed somewhere safe, and I found it. That’s what wives do."

"I didn’t ask you to burn yourself out for a shack."

"You didn’t have to ask."

Her lips brushed his throat, feather-light, no real force behind it. The usual hunger was there, buried under exhaustion. She wasn’t grinding against him or whispering possessively in his ear.

She was just... holding on.

For now.

"Ronan." Her voice cracked. "Can I...?"

She didn’t finish the question. The way her fingers curled weakly against his chest, the way her shadows flickered like a dying candle, said everything.

He exhaled slowly.

This was the deal. The bond. The intimacy requirement the system had drilled into his skull back in Tartarus-B. She needed energy, and this was how she got it.

Not prayer.

Not worship.

Just him.

His touch, his attention, his willingness to let her close.

"Yeah," he said. "Go ahead."

Sarael lifted her head, her violet eyes searching his face for something. Hesitation, maybe. Or resentment. The flicker of a man who was only tolerating her because the system said so.

Whatever she found must have satisfied her, because she leaned in and kissed him.

Soft and tired and strangely fragile.

Her hips shifted against his lap, a slow, languid roll that had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with need. The shadows beneath her stirred, reaching up to wrap around both of them like a cocoon.

Ronan let his hands slide up her back, feeling the dip of her spine, the faint tremor in her muscles. She made a small sound against his mouth, something between a whimper and a sigh, and pressed closer.

Ronan stared at the ceiling, letting the absurdity of his situation settle in.

Seven people dead. His face plastered across every news site in the country. A manhunt gearing up for him. And now a naked goddess was draped across his lap.

He should’ve been panicking. He should’ve been figuring out his next move, scouting escape routes, preparing for the worst.

Instead, his hands were on her waist, and he didn’t want to move them.

’This is insane,’ he thought.

But was it? Really?

Back in Tartarus-B, every single day had been a fight for survival. Constant vigilance. One eye open while he slept. Monsters around every corner. The only person who’d had his back was her.

Now he was on Earth. Safer, even with the manhunt. No flesh golems. No skitter packs. Just a goddess who’d killed for him and a world that wanted him dead.

Honestly? He’d take the goddess.

’She’s pretty anyway.’

He snorted at his own thought. Pretty was an understatement. She was gorgeous, and she was his, and right now she was looking at him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

Maybe he was, well, it was definitely likely.

"Ronan?" Sarael’s voice was small, uncertain. "You’re staring. Is there a problem?"

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

He could’ve lied. Could’ve said he was planning their next move, strategizing, doing something productive.

Instead, he told the truth.

She didn’t seem like the kind of girl who would mind anyway. And after everything, Ronan definitely wanted a little intimacy to take his mind off things. It was the bare minimum he needed to finally give his brain a break.

"About how I don’t really mind this."

Her eyes widened.

"Seven people are dead. I’m a wanted man. My life’s pretty much over."

He shrugged, his thumbs still tracing slow circles against her hips.

"But you’re here. And you’re beautiful. And I’m very tired of acting like a celibate monk."

The shadows around them stirred. Her lips parted, just slightly.

"So I’m done pretending." He met her violet eyes. "Would you mind?"

Sarael blinked.

Then her pupils shifted. Not dilating or contracting like normal people, but actually changing shape, warping from round circles into tiny violet hearts. Like someone had redrawn her eyes mid-expression.

A giggle slipped out of her. Then another. Higher and shakier. The kind of laugh that definitely belonged to someone who’d kill for their significant other.

"You mean it, you actually mean it, right?"

"I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t."

Her grin stretched too wide. It was manic and unhinged, the expression of a woman who’d just been handed everything she’d ever wanted and had no idea what to do with it except tremble.

And all the while, those heart-shaped pupils stayed fixed on him, bright and unblinking.

"Yes." The word tumbled out of her mouth. "Yes, yes, yes—"

She grabbed his face with both hands, her fingers cool against his cheeks.

"Do anything. Everything. Whatever you want." Her voice cracked. "Do anything that you want with me."

The shadows around them pulsed once, hard, then settled into something almost content. Sarael pressed her forehead against his, still shaking, still grinning that too-wide grin, heart-shaped pupils shimmering with unshed tears.

Ronan wasn’t sure if his stamina could keep up with hers, even with his golem’s constitution active in the darkness of the shack.

But...

’No pain, no gain, I guess.’