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“Were you not paying attention earlier?” He snaps. “When you ran last night. It felt like my atoms were being unspooled and the universe was peeling strips off my organs the further away you got. I don’t get sick. Ever. Yet I had to launch myself down that stairwell to find you before the distance literally ripped the bones from my chest.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “What does that even mean? Metaphorically?”

He blows out a frustrated breath, pacing the small width of my bedroom. “I don’t know. It’s likely just some leftover coating from the Veil. A metaphysical glue that didn't set right. So, we get sick when we're apart. Are you following the logic, or do I need to draw it in crayon?”

I narrow my eyes. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know this isn't some kind of trick?”

He stops pacing abruptly, turning to face me with a cold, challenging smirk. He gestures lazily toward the hallway.

“You want to test the perimeter? Be my guest. Go ahead. Run.” His golden eyes flash. “See how far you get down the stairwell before you’re vomiting out your internal organs. I’ll wait.”

I swallow hard, the phantom nausea from earlier ghosting over my tongue.

“Didn't think so,” he drawls.

I look down at my feet, at the scattered grains of salt on the carpet. “How long?” I ask, my voice barely audible. “How long will it last?”

“No idea.” He shrugs. “Could be hours. Could be days. Maybe I’ll spend the next few weeks staggering after you like some parasitic shadow, tethered by gut-stabbing drama every time you wander too far.”

He tilts his head, a dark, wicked light dawning in his eyes.

“Maybe I’ll be condemned to haunt your bones after you die, because I’ll still get sick if I stray too far—an eternal decorative demon perched at your graveside, critiquing your pathetic flower arrangements and hissing at teenagers who come make out at midnight. Which, frankly, beats filing Form 42-B: Post-Mortem Screaming Volume Audit. But still, it⁠—”

“But I have a life,” I protest, trying to set my jaw. “I have a job. I have things to do.”

Which is mostly true, I do have a job, even if I did have to call in earlier today to take the week off with the excuse of severe food poisoning, just to keep them off my back.

“Sure you do,” he drawls, rocking back on his heels just enough to look me up and down. “Because all people with a full, thriving life slit their wrists and scream for dead men in the middle of the night.”

I flinch as if he’d slapped me, the blade of truth wedging itself right between my ribs.

I open my mouth to tell him to back the fuck up, to find a word that isn't a humiliated stutter, but the room tilts, a wave of dizzy, grey nausea washing over me in a sudden, sickening swoop. My hand slaps blindly at the edge of the dresser, fingers scrambling for purchase on the wood to keep from face-planting onto the floor.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, hands catching my waist. “You mortals are built like glass figurines held together with hope and spit.”

“I'm... fine,” I lie.

He ignores me, of course, and steers me back toward my bed, fingertips digging into my flesh. He takes so much of my weight that my toes barely scuff the carpet, maneuvering me like I’m a broken mannequin that needs to be returned to storage.

“Get off,” I wheeze, trying to bat his hands away as he dumps me onto the mattress. “I don't need your help. Back off.”

“Or what?” he taunts. “You’ll season me?”

“I—”

Before I can come up with a retort, he grabs the duvet and tugs the heavy fabric over me, pulling it tight across my shoulders and pinning my arms to my sides with a ruthless, efficient precision.

“What are you⁠—”

“I am swaddling you,” he says flatly as he tugs the final corner of the blanket under my hip, effectively turning me into a human burrito. “Stay in your cocoon. If you attempt to unravel yourself and wander again, I will be forced to use more... permanent methods of restraint.”

I want to argue. I want to tell him I'm not a newborn or a golden retriever puppy, but my body is already betraying me, sinking into the forced warmth of the blankets.

“Go away,” I mutter.

“In a moment,” he rumbles, his shadow lingering over the bed. “Sleep, little summoner.”

Chapter 7