Page 63 of Demon’s Snack

“Isolde,” he says quietly, “I do not trust myself.”

I hold his gaze.

“I do,” I answer.

The room goes very still.

He looks almost angry at the words.

Not offended.

Terrified.

“You should not.”

“You have had multiple opportunities to hurt me.”

“That is not reassuring when phrased like that.”

“And yet it remains relevant.”

He exhales sharply and tips his head back against the stone wall behind him. His throat works visibly as he swallows, ember light flickering beneath the skin there.

“You keep acting like restraint is enough.”

“It may be.”

“It may also fail.”

“Yes.”

The honesty lands between us, heavy and unavoidable.

Corin stares at me for several seconds, breathing unevenly.

Then, very softly, he says, “You’re still here.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Because the bond quiets when you look at me.

Because your fear of harming me matters more than the hunger itself.

Because when you touched my wrist in the alley, something in my blood answered like a lock discovering the shape of its key.

I say none of those things aloud.

Instead, I lift my hand slowly and place it against the center of his chest.

The reaction is immediate.

Corin inhales sharply through his teeth. Heat floods through the bond in a powerful wave, but instead of surging outward violently, it folds inward around the contact point. The infernal current inside him shifts direction, circling tighter, smoother, drawn toward connection instead of consumption.

His hand catches my wrist instinctively.

He does not remove my hand.