My apartment felt like a safe haven as I stepped inside. As if nothing could get me as long as these three-inch wooden doors were between me and the rest of the world. But that safety seemed to shatter, because the moment I closed the door behind me was the moment I crumbled down to the floor. My knees gave out just like that, and I was suddenly lying on the floorboards.
The hunger came in waves now. A pulse under my skin that was done being ignored. Every sound was too sharp, every scent too thick. The faint tang of dust in the air made my mouth water. And the pain, God, the pain. The tears were streaking down my face now as I hugged my abdomen and curled up, trying to keep it in, trying to endure it.
I thought I was going to die. And maybe I was. But before it could get any worse, the space in front of my face glimmered with gold light. And there he was.
Abbadon crouched in front of me, perfectly at ease, tie slightly loosened like he'd just stepped out of a business meeting.
I groaned and leaned my head back against the wall. "Do you just… appear whenever I'm miserable?"
He smirked. "That's the beauty of being your assigned handler. I get alerts when you're about to keel over. Very efficient system, really."
"What do you want, Abby?"
He was silent for a second, looking like a deer in headlights. "What did you just call me…"
"I considered Abba," I mumbled between clenched teeth. "But I don't think you'd appreciate the reference."
"Just shut up." He crouched lower. "You're burning through your reserves faster than projected. Not eating will do that to you."
"I know, I know… I'm working on it."
"This is what you call work?" His nose scrunched up as he said it. It was strangely adorable, and I would have probably remarked on it if it wasn't for the pang of pain that rattled through me.
"Why do you even care?" I mumbled. "Don't you want me dead?"
"That would be preferred, yes. But in the meantime… you're making me look bad. The more initiates that die on my watch, the more HR meetings I'll have to attend."
Hell has an HR?
He snapped his fingers and my UI flickered faintly in the air.
[Hunger Level: 25% (declining)]
The letters trembled before fading out.
"You're practically running on fumes. If you survive this, I hope they reassign you. Maybe someone like Lilith will break through that thick skull."
I pushed myself up enough to glare at him. "You're being an asshole."
"Occupational hazard." There was no mockery in his eyes. Just something heavier. Older.
His tone softened just enough to make my stomach tighten. "Do yourself a favor. Eat something. Someone."
"Well," I couldn't believe I was telling him this. "For what it's worth, I do have a dinner date tonight."
He stood up, yanking me up along with him. "I know."
He knows?!
"I don't-
He snapped his fingers, and something dark shimmered into existence, draping itself across my couch. A dress, sleek, blood-red satin with a neckline that would make most women blush.
He gestured at it like a tailor presenting a masterpiece. "I figured you could use all the help you could get."
And just like that, he was gone, the air snapping shut where he'd stood, leaving behind the faint smell of fire.
Left to my own devices, I decided it was now or never. So I took advantage of the fact that the burning pain was quiet for a few moments and dragged myself to the shower. It felt good to stand there for several minutes and let the hot water wash away the craziness of what was happening. But then that familiar pang returned, and I realized I was running out of time.
So I stepped out, drying myself before making my way back to the couch. I took one look at the dress before dismissing it. It was way too much, and wearing something like that around Warren made me feel… scared. So I settled for a more professional blouse and pencil skirt.
Then, when it was all said and done, I sat on the couch and tried not to cry.
I wasn't sure how to feel, much less how to think. Any interest I had in Warren Chen was absolutely dead. All I felt for him now was disgust and anger. I still felt that hunger, though; if anything, it was stronger now. I wanted him dead… I wanted to consume him.
It seemed like the right thing to do, as ironic as that sounded. I sat there, lost in my thoughts until my phone finally buzzed.
I'm outside. Come down.
Of course he was. It probably hadn't taken him long to find my address on the employee database.
So, I stood up, making peace with what was about to happen. I paused just for a second to catch my reflection in the window glass. My eyes looked strange, the color too sharp, the pupils stretched long and thin for a moment before returning to normal. My lips were darker too, like they'd been bitten raw. I touched my cheek and felt the heat radiating beneath my skin.
"Human," I whispered to myself, testing the word. It didn't sound right anymore.
When I stepped out of my building and into the lobby, the night air was cold enough to bite. Warren's car idled at the curb. I didn't know enough about cars to identify the brand, but it looked expensive. When I approached, he stepped out to open the door for me, smiling like a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
"Wow," he said, eyes sweeping over me. "I didn't think you could look any better."
My stomach flipped, but not from the compliment. The smell of him, the warmth of his skin, the faint trace of aftershave. It was too much. I could hear his heartbeat, steady and confident, pulsing like a drum inside my head. My thoughts began to blur; I felt an impulsive instinct to pounce. To sink my nails into his skin and devour him.
"Where are we going?" I asked, fighting tooth and nail with myself to keep composed.
He just smiled. "You'll see."
I expected a restaurant. Some dimly lit place with candles and wine glasses. Instead, we pulled up to a two-story house at the edge of a quiet street. The kind of house that said comfortable: just expensive enough to be impressive.
"This your idea of a reservation?" I asked.
"Nothing beats a home-cooked meal."
He looked proud of himself. Well, on the bright side, I wouldn't have to worry about witnesses.
The moment I stepped inside, it was clear that Warren had privileges I could never dream of. The place was spotless, not a single thing out of place. The air smelled like polish and faint citrus. The walls were lined with minimalist art, abstract landscapes in cold colors. There was a grand staircase curving up into shadow, and a glass clock ticking too loudly on the wall.
When I took a step forward, the room tilted. My knees buckled, and I might've hit the floor if his hands hadn't caught my waist.
"Hey," he said softly. "Easy there."
His touch burned through the fabric of my blouse. My pulse went wild, not from nerves, but from hunger. I could feel it in my throat, my chest, my teeth.
"I'm fine," I lied, trying to pull back.
He didn't let go right away. "You look pale. When's the last time you ate?"
My mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Funny question."
"Here, let me help you." With surprisingly easy strength, Warren had lifted me off the ground and into his arms, bridal style. I hated being a damsel in his arms, hated how a part of me used to daydream about moments like this. Still, I said nothing as he carried me through the hallway.
The living room was open to the kitchen, all smooth lines and stainless steel, the kind of space designed to impress. He sat me down gently, brushing imaginary dust off my shoulder before stepping away.
"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asked.
"Just… famished," I admitted before I could stop myself.
He grinned. "I love that about you. You're so delicate. You just need someone to take care of you, isn't that right?"
Something in me hated that thought.
He was already at the counter, rolling up his sleeves, pulling vegetables from the fridge. The knife clicked rhythmically against the cutting board, a steady, dangerous sound.
"Want a drink while I cook?" he asked over his shoulder.
I shook my head. "No thanks."
He shrugged, reaching for a bottle anyway, and poured himself a glass of something amber. The smell drifted through the room, sharp, smoky, sweet.
I folded my hands in my lap and watched the way he moved, the muscles shifting beneath his shirt, the easy confidence of a man who believed the night already belonged to him. He didn't know that I could feel his pulse from across the room. Didn't know that every breath he took scraped against something primal inside me.
And he definitely didn't know that, if I stopped fighting it, I could consume him whole.
I sat up on his couch, forcing my spine straight. The room swayed faintly at the edges of my vision, hunger making everything pulse in slow motion.
His house was immaculate. Big open space, polished floors that reflected the soft overhead lighting. The walls were sharp white with black trim accents. There were pieces of art on shelves and stands, but nothing personal, nothing personable.
The smell of garlic and butter was filling the air. "I'm making shrimp scampi," he called over the counter, voice casual. "You like seafood?"
"Sure."
He smiled at me from across the island, that same smile that once made my stomach flutter. Now it only made me feel vaguely nauseous. "Good," he said, turning back to the stove. "So I'm guessing you had a long day?"
I let out a half-laugh. "Something like that."
"Yeah?" he glanced back over his shoulder, flipping the shrimp in the pan. "Well, I hope it wasn't because of me. I was worried I might've… overstepped the other night. Things got a little-
"Complicated?" I offered.
He chuckled softly. "I was going to say heated."
I shifted on the couch, trying to keep my breathing steady. I could hear the butter sizzling, the scrape of metal against ceramic. I could even hear the rhythm of his heartbeat if I focused.
"So," Warren went on, "how's your week been? Aside from the usual office chaos."
"It's been fine."
"You always say that. You're so hard to read, Kassie, you know that?"
He stepped away from the stove, opening a cabinet and shuffling about. I looked away for a moment, closing my eyes for just a second in a self-soothing manner. I had to get it together, or I had to let loose; there was little time for in-betweens now.
When I opened my eyes, he was walking toward me, setting one glass of wine down on the coffee table and cradling another in his hand.
"I didn't ask for a drink," I said.
"I know," he said, smiling. "You just looked like you needed one."
He sat down beside me, a little too close, the cushion dipping under his weight. I could smell him, under that familiar cologne was something so primal and visceral, something I never noticed with my human nose.
He leaned in, his shoulder brushing mine. "Where's your head tonight?" he asked quietly. "You seem far away."
I hesitated. "I'm just… thinking."
"About?"
I looked at him. His brown eyes were open, searching, full of false warmth. I didn't even realize the words were leaving my mouth until they did.
"Sofia."