Page 90 of Demon’s Snack

The command lands through the bond with enough force that his attention jerks back. I step closer and press two fingers against his sternum, right over the place where the demon’s essence churns brightest beneath his skin. His shirt is hot enough to sting, and the first pulse that hits my hand nearly drives the breath from me. I keep my fingers there anyway, tapping once, twice, again, setting a rhythm that matches the deepest thread of the bond.

“In,” I say.

His nostrils flare. Smoke curls faintly from between his lips, but he draws the breath.

“Hold.”

“Out.”

He exhales in a rough rush, black-gold sparks spilling into the air between us before vanishing against my sleeve.

Behind me, Vaerith’s voice cuts across the courtyard. “Do not interfere with the containment response.”

I do not look at him.

Corin’s pulse hammers under my fingertips, too fast, too hot, trying to drag the demon’s essence outward through the nearest available path. I tap again, firmer this time, and match my inhale to the rhythm I am forcing into him. The bond catches the cadence. The infernal surge strikes it, recoils, then begins to bend.

“There,” I say, keeping my voice sharp enough to hold him. “Again.”

His hands remain curled at his sides, but his fingers stop flexing toward claws. His shoulders lower a fraction. The glow beneath his skin shifts from jagged bursts to a tighter pulse that follows my tapping. Sweat beads along his temple, instantly warmed away by the heat coming off him.

“This is insane,” he grinds out.

“Correct.”

“In front of everyone?”

“I am multitasking.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“You are breathing. Accept victory where it presents itself.”

A broken sound escapes him, and the bond steadies another notch.

The demon’s essence no longer spirals toward the crowd. I feel it locking onto my cadence, not peacefully, not obediently, but predictably enough to redirect. The realization strikes with almost physical clarity. Corin’s hunger does not need suppression in this moment. It needs direction, a path with walls strong enough to keep it from flooding every living thing around him.

The ritual circle still burns beneath us.

Vaerith’s runes.

Vaerith’s lies.

Vaerith’s hidden containment lines, now visible to my trained eye because the demon broke enough of the glamour for the true structure to bleed through. Thin red channels spiderweb from the pedestal to the dais, then from the dais into the ward posts, all of them designed to release danger away from Vaerith and toward the circle where I stand. The “harmless projection” was never meant to be safe. It was meant to create a controlled catastrophe.

Rage moves through me with surgical precision.

I turn my hand against Corin’s chest, angling my fingers along the flow of his pulse.

He feels the change immediately. “Isolde?”

“Half-step right.”

“What?”

“Half-step right, unless you want to flambé the guild witnesses.”

His mouth pulls into a strained, incredulous curve despite the agony in his eyes. “You’re aiming me?”