For what, she did not know. For him to return. For the pain to stop. For her mind to make sense of what her body had endured. She tried to lift herself again, pushing up on her elbows, and that was when she saw it.

The cave was empty.

Her heart stopped.

She turned her head. Left. Right. The shadows were still. The rain was steady. There was no black coat. No violet eyes. No calm, impossible presence. Just the stone. Just the mist. Just the drip of water and the sound of her own ragged breathing.

"He left," she whispered.

The words came out cracked. Broken. Her voice was not hers anymore—it was the voice of a woman who had screamed until her throat bled. She stared at the empty space where he had been. Where he had held her. Where he had said ’I am with you’.

Her tears came.

They poured from her eyes without her permission. Hot. Endless. They ran down her temples and into her hair and onto the stone. She did not know why she was crying. She did not know what she had expected. He was a stranger. A killer. A devil who had walked into a room and erased men from existence. He had fucked her. He had torn her. He had filled her with seed and left her gaping and ruined.

But he had saved her.

And now he was gone.

"What do I do?" she sobbed. Her hands went to her face. They were shaking. "What do I do now?"

She tried to lift herself. Her arms gave out. She collapsed. Her body was a map of bruises and soreness and the deep, internal ache of a womb that had been flooded. She felt the cum inside her. Still there. Warm. Leaking. She felt the tenderness of her pussy. Her anal. Her throat. Every part of her was marked. Every part of her was his.

And he had left her.

She curled onto her side. She pulled her knees to her chest. She was naked. She realized it now—her body was bare. But there was fabric on her. A coat. Black. Heavy. It was draped over her like a blanket. His coat. It smelled of him. Of blood. Of something older. She clutched it. She pressed her face into the fabric. She inhaled.

"Are you awake?"

The voice came from behind her.

She turned.

Her head snapped around so fast that her neck cracked. Her eyes—red, swollen, desperate—found him. He stood at the cave mouth. The rain framed him. Water ran down his dark hair. His coat was gone—he wore only a dark shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hands held something. A bowl. Steam rose from it.

He walked toward her.

His boots were silent on the stone. His violet eyes were calm. Still. As if he had never left. As if the empty cave had been a trick of her fear. He knelt beside her. He set the bowl down. It contained something thick. Warm. Broth, maybe. Or stew.

He held a spoon.

"Eat," he said.

He lifted the spoon to her lips. She stared at him. At the spoon. At his face. The blood was gone from his cheek. Washed away by the rain. His skin was pale. Perfect. The face of a devil who had killed for her and then gone to find her food.

She opened her mouth.

The spoon entered. The broth was hot. Salty. It coated her tongue. It slid down her throat. She swallowed. It hit her stomach and spread warmth. He lifted another spoonful. He fed her. Slowly. Patiently. Each movement was deliberate. Each spoonful was measured. He did not speak. He did not rush. He simply fed her.

Her eyes were on him.

She watched his face. The way his violet eyes tracked her throat as she swallowed. The way his lips were slightly parted. The way his jaw moved when he chewed nothing—just a habit, a small motion. She watched his hands. Long fingers. Pale. The hands that had rubbed her back. That had held her down. That had killed two knights without touching them.

She trembled.

Not from cold. From something else. She looked down at herself. At her body. The coat had slipped. Her breasts were exposed. Her nipples were stiff. Dark. The rain mist had made them hard. Or maybe it was the drug. Or maybe it was him. Her skin was flushed. Pink. The marks of his fingers were still on her hips. On her thighs.

She was covered by his clothes.

The realization hit her. He had covered her. Before he left. Before he went to find food. He had draped his coat over her naked body. He had kept her warm. Protected her. Even after everything he had done to her.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Her voice was small. Husky. She did not know why she was thanking him. For the food? For the coat? For saving her? For fucking her? The lines had blurred. Everything had blurred. Her mind could not separate the rescue from the rape from the tenderness from the terror.

She did not know why her flush formed.

Her cheeks burned. Her chest burned. She looked at him and felt her face turn crimson. She was not angry. She was not scared. She was... relieved. Relieved that he had not left. Relieved that he was here. Relieved that the devil who had destroyed her body was also the only thing that felt safe.

She felt something.

A throb. Deep in her chest. In her belly. In the place where he had been. She had been fucked by a handsome man. The most handsome man she had ever seen. A devil. A killer. And her body—traitorous, broken, drugged—was responding to him. Not with fear. With heat.

She trembled.

Her hand shook as she took the spoon from him. She fed herself. The broth spilled on her chin. She wiped it. Her fingers were unsteady. She ate. She needed strength. She needed to think. She needed to...

"By the way," he said. His voice was casual. Conversational. "I brought some oil."

Sera blinked.

"What?" she said. The word came out thick. Confused.

He chuckled.

It was a low sound. Warm. It vibrated in his chest. He reached into the pocket of his shirt—he had pockets, somehow, even without his coat—and pulled out a small glass vial. It was clear. The liquid inside was golden. Thick. It caught the gray light of the cave and glowed.

"Oil," he said. He held it up. "For massage. Your grandfather is a masseur, is he not? And you... you are a fighter. Your body must be sore."

He looked at her. His violet eyes dropped to her chest. To her breasts. To her nipples. To the marks on her hips. To the place between her legs that was still leaking his seed.

"Are you not going to give me one?" he said. He tilted his head. "Or are you going to enjoy it alone?"

Her flush deepened.

It spread from her cheeks to her neck to her chest. Her nipples tightened further. She looked at the vial. At the oil. She looked at him. At the way he sat back on his heels. At the way his shirt was open at the collar. At the way his chest was visible—pale, smooth, muscled.

He was too much.