Aya's delighted gasp filled the quiet space between them. Her hands instinctively reached for the basket of golden fruit Nine held—small, plump peaches, their fragrance sweet and tempting. A rare find. A gift.
But the moment her gaze truly settled on him, her excitement faltered.
Nine stood unnaturally still, his shoulders rigid, his entire posture taut as if holding back a storm. The basket handle nearly disappeared in his grip, knuckles white from the force of it. His breathing was measured—too measured.
His expression, usually carved with lazy amusement or sharp wit, was unreadable.
Something was wrong.
Aya didn't hesitate. She closed the space between them, reaching up to cradle his face between her palms. Her warmth pressed against the unnatural coolness of his skin, her thumbs stroking along the sharp lines of his jaw.
"What's wrong?" she whispered, searching his gaze, her worry soft yet urgent.
Nine swallowed hard. He had intended to hold himself together, but her touch—her simple, grounding touch—unraveled him thread by thread.
A foreign heat coiled in his core, spreading outward like wildfire. Her presence, her scent, the sound of her voice—it was too much. Overwhelming. His pulse slammed violently against his ribs, mismatched to the steady, soothing rhythm of hers beneath his fingers.
His grip tightened over her wrist.
The ticking inside him grew louder.
A warning. A demand.
Nine clenched his teeth. His body reacted to her like instinct, drawn to her in ways that sent fire licking at his nerves. He wanted to pull her closer. Bury himself in her warmth. Consume her—
No.
The realization struck like lightning, and he yanked himself away as if burned. His breath hitched, his muscles coiling in restraint.
Aya gasped, startled by the sudden retreat. Her arms fell to her sides, brows knitting together.
"Nine?" she asked hesitantly, concern shadowing her expression. She reached for him again, but he stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair, his fingers digging into his scalp.
Just now—he had wanted to devour her.
His gaze flickered toward the crib. Their son slept soundly, oblivious to the silent war raging inside his father.
A sick sensation curled in Nine's gut.
"I need help," he muttered, more to himself than her. His voice was rough, like gravel scraping steel. "No. I need guidance."
Aya frowned. "About what?" Her voice softened, pleading. "Tell me. I'll help you."
"The monks."
She stiffened.
Nine exhaled sharply, turning away. He knew if he stayed any longer, he might not be able to fight whatever was clawing its way to the surface.
"I'll be back."
Then he was gone, vanishing before she could stop him—before she could see the truth of what lurked beneath his skin.
---
"Monk."
Nine's voice cut through the dimly lit hall, his presence disturbing the meditative stillness.
The old monk sat motionless before a row of flickering candles. At Nine's intrusion, he turned slowly, aged eyes settling on him.
"A disturbance in the realm," the monk murmured.
Nine's patience snapped like a frayed wire. "Enough with riddles." His tone was edged with frustration. "I need guidance."
The monk studied him for a long moment before offering a small, knowing smile.
"Control and conquer. Be one with the essence, and you shall fulfill."
Nine's jaw tightened. "You know more than that," he accused, his voice dipping into a warning growl.
The monk remained unfazed. "That thing inside you." He gestured toward Nine's chest. "A blessing or a curse—that depends on you."
Nine stilled.
His grip twitched toward his dagger, a deep itch to carve out the cryptic answers he sought.
"You knew," he said lowly.
The monk nodded. "Let its essence become one with you."
Nine's fingers curled into fists. He let out a sharp breath, turning on his heel. With a single step, he vanished into the night, the breeze snuffing out the candles behind him.
All but one.
The monk exhaled, watching the lone flame flicker.
---
Aya gasped when arms wrapped around her, firm and unyielding. Panic flared for only a second before the familiar warmth sank in.
Nine.
She melted into his embrace, burying her face against his chest, his scent grounding her. He held her tight, but something was off—an unspoken weight pressing between them. A storm caged beneath his skin.
Nine guided her outside, into the garden where moonlight bathed the villa in silver hues. The night breeze kissed her skin, but it did little to soothe the unease swirling inside her.
Aya waited for him to speak.
Waited for the reason her heart was hammering in her chest.
"I… became a lord."
His voice was quiet, but the words struck like a blade.
Aya's knees buckled. She collapsed onto the wooden bench behind her, her stomach twisting, a sick feeling creeping up her spine.
Nine knelt before her, watching her face carefully.
"When?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"Earlier." His exhale was heavy. "The essence came to me personally."
She stiffened. "Sin of Greed?"
A shadow passed over his expression.
"Lust."
Aya inhaled sharply.
Her stomach dropped.
Lust.
Her heart clenched. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she forced them back.
"Lust?" she echoed, voice trembling. "Are there… others? Women?" A swallow. "You must have gained it through arousal."
Nine flinched.
"No, Aya, no." His hands shot forward, clasping hers. His grip was firm—desperate. "I've only ever held you. Only you." His gaze burned with conviction. "Just you."
Tears spilled down her cheeks, silent and endless.
Nine placed her hand over his heart. His fingers trembled, but his voice did not waver.
Then—
A surge of emotion flooded between them, unseen but overwhelming.
Aya's breath hitched.
Then she felt it.
Nine's devotion. His obsession. His love.
Memories flashed—his, not hers.
Her smile. Her laughter. The warmth of her presence carved into his very existence.
His battles. His bloodshed. The relentless fights, his body broken and exhausted, yet always dragging himself back to her. Nights he stitched his wounds in secret, enduring pain just to stand beside her, just to be near her.
The time he almost died but still crawled back to where she waited.
There had never been another woman. His world had only ever been Aya.
And then—his reason.
Why he fought.
Why he endured.
Aya choked on a sob. She threw herself into his arms, fingers threading into his hair, offering comfort when he was the one who needed it.
Nine exhaled against her skin. "You are my comfort," he murmured.
The essence within him stirred—calmer now.
But something was wrong.
His fingers brushed over her stomach. His eyes darkened.
Aya frowned. "Nine, what—?"
He pressed his palm against her core, concentrating. He tried to pull it out, tried multiple times.
It didn't transfer.
It had split.
Nine's throat went dry.
Both of them had it now.
He blinked.
Then exhaled a quiet, "What the fuck."
Aya smacked him across the head, sniffling. "You ruined the moment."