Chapter 15
My exhale fogs in front of my face. The volcanic heat lamps—the ones that are always on, the ones that turn this room into a cozy, eucalyptus-scented sanctuary where I've spent the last three weeks falling catastrophically in love with a cryptid—are completely dark.
Dead. The obsidian panels lining the walls look dull and lifeless instead of gleaming with reflected warmth.
I step further inside, my bag sliding off my shoulder to hit the floor with a dull thud.
The plush furs we fucked on three nights ago are gone.
The room is empty except for the reinforced massage table and the massive, hunched figure sitting on its edge.
Cyprian is sitting on the edge of the table, his frame hunched forward, wings folded tight against his back. He is not moving. He is not looking at me.
He is just... sitting there.
In the dark.
My stomach drops.
Something is catastrophically, irreversibly wrong.
I take a step forward, my sneakers squeaking against the cold stone floor.
"Cyprian?"
He does not respond.
I take another step.
"Hey. What's going on? Why is it freezing in here?"
Still nothing.
The silence is suffocating.
I move closer, my eyes adjusting to the dim emergency lighting from the hallway. And that is when I see it.
His left arm.
It is not slate-gray.
It is not warm.
It is completely, utterly calcified.
Gray stone. Rigid. Frozen against his chest like a grotesque sculpture.
And his veins—the amber crystalline veins that glow when he is aroused, when he is happy, when he is alive—are dark.
Not flickering.
Not dim.
Dark.
Like someone cut the power.
My chest tightens.
"Cyprian," I say again, my voice sharper now. "What happened? Are you—"
"Do not come closer."
His voice cuts through the room like a blade.
Cold.
Flat.
Utterly devoid of warmth.
I freeze mid-step.
He still has not looked at me.
"Okay," I say slowly, my heart pounding. "Can you at least tell me what's going on? Because you're kind of freaking me out right now."
Finally, he moves.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He reaches down with his right hand—the one that is still functional—and picks up something from the floor beside the table.
A data tablet.
High-security. Obsidian Aegis logo stamped across the back.
He holds it out toward me.
Not offering it.
Commanding me to take it.
I walk forward, my legs feeling like lead, and take the tablet from his clawed hand.
The screen is already active.
A single audio file is queued up.
"Play it," he says.
His tone is not a request.
I swallow hard and press play.
The recording starts immediately.
A smooth, professional male voice fills the room.
"Ms. Beck, we represent Obsidian Recovery Solutions. We have recently acquired your outstanding debt portfolios. We are prepared to offer you a full discharge of all liabilities—no payment required—in exchange for a single service."
My blood turns to ice.
Oh no.
Oh fuck no.
"What kind of service?"
That is my voice.
From yesterday afternoon.
When I answered the door to my shitty apartment and found a man in an expensive suit holding a briefcase.
"We need access to certain proprietary information. Specifically: the structural blueprints and encrypted access codes for the primary obsidian vaults operated by Obsidian Aegis Security."
"You want me to steal from my employer."
"We prefer to think of it as... information sharing. You provide the blueprints. We discharge your debt. Everyone walks away satisfied."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we proceed with standard collection protocols. Wage garnishment. Asset seizure. Legal action. We are very thorough, Ms. Beck."
The recording ends.
Silence crashes back into the room.
I stare at the tablet, my hands shaking.
"I didn't—"
"Why did you not tell me?"
His voice is still flat.
Still cold.
Still utterly devoid of the warmth I have come to associate with him.
I look up.
He is staring at me now.
And his eyes—those molten amber eyes that have looked at me with hunger, with need, with something that felt dangerously close to love—are empty.
"I—" My throat closes. "I was going to. I just—"
"You were going to tell me," he repeats, his tone dripping with disbelief. "When? After you delivered the blueprints? After you sold my security infrastructure to my corporate rivals?"
"What? No! I would never—"
"Then why?" he demands, his voice rising for the first time. "Why did you hide this from me? Why did you not come to me the moment they made contact?"
"Because I didn't want you to think I was using you!"
The words explode out of me before I can stop them.
Cyprian goes still.
I take a shaking breath, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
"I didn't tell you," I say, my voice trembling, "because I was terrified you would think I was just another broke, desperate human looking for a handout. That everything between us was just... just me trying to get you to pay off my debts."
"And was it?"
The question lands like a punch to the gut.
I stare at him.
"Are you seriously asking me that?"
"Answer the question."
"Fuck you."
His jaw tightens.
"Answer. The question."
"No!" I shout, my voice cracking. "No, it wasn't! I rejected their offer the second they made it! I told them to go fuck themselves and slammed the door in their face!"
"Then why did you not tell me?"
"Because I was embarrassed!" I scream. "Because I didn't want to be another problem you had to solve! Another broken thing you had to fix!"
My chest is heaving, tears burning hot at the corners of my eyes, and I can't stop the words from pouring out now that the dam has broken.
"You've already done so much for me," I say, my voice breaking into something raw and desperate.
"The contract upgrade, the apartment, the—the fucking organic orange juice that costs more than my old weekly grocery budget.
And I was grateful, Cyprian. I am grateful.
But I didn't want you to think that was all I wanted from you.
I didn't want you to look at me and see a charity case instead of—" I stop, my throat closing around the words I can't quite say.
"Instead of someone you chose because you wanted to, not because you felt obligated to fix me. "
Cyprian doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He just stares at me with those amber eyes that have gone flat and lifeless, and the silence stretches between us like a chasm I don't know how to cross.
"When did they contact you?" he asks finally, and his voice has gone quiet. Dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like the calm before a building collapses.
"Three days ago."
"And you rejected them immediately?"
"Yes. Immediately. I didn't even let them finish their pitch."
"Without consulting me." It's not a question. It's an accusation wrapped in stone.
I let out a bitter, broken laugh. "Oh, great. So now I'm officially a high-maintenance paranoia trigger. Should I have filed a formal incident report? Maybe scheduled a briefing with your security team?"
His calcified arm twitches—just once—and I watch the gray stone spread visibly past his elbow, creeping toward his shoulder like frost racing across glass. The amber veins flicker weakly, struggling against the petrification.
"You made a unilateral decision regarding a direct security threat to my organization," he says, and his voice is so controlled it sounds like he's reading from a corporate manual. "That is not humor, Tamsin. That is protocol."
"I wasn't thinking about your fucking protocols!" I snap, my voice cracking. "I was thinking about proving I wasn't using you! I was trying to show you I could handle my own shit without running to you every single time something went wrong!"
"By concealing a direct attempt at corporate espionage."
"By protecting you from thinking I was just another liability you'd eventually resent!"
His amber veins flicker again—once, twice—and then dim further.
The calcification reaches his shoulder, and I can see the exact moment the joint locks.
His entire frame shifts slightly to compensate for the dead weight, and the movement is so small, so subtle, but it feels like watching him die in slow motion.
"Your timeline is inconsistent," he says, and his voice has gone completely flat now. Clinical. Like he's analyzing data instead of talking to the woman he was inside of less than seventy-two hours ago. "You claim you rejected them immediately, yet you did not inform me for three days."
"Because I was scared!" The words rip out of me, raw and desperate.
"Of what?"
"Of this!" I gesture wildly between us, my hands shaking. "Of you looking at me exactly the way you're looking at me right now—like I'm a security risk instead of—" I stop. My throat closes. I can't finish the sentence because saying it out loud will make it real, and I can't handle that right now.
"Instead of what?" he asks, and his voice has gone so quiet I almost don't hear it.
"I was falling for you," I whisper, and the tears are streaming down my face now, hot and unstoppable. "And that was already terrifying enough without confirming that I was just... just a liability you'd eventually resent. Another problem you'd have to manage."
The silence that follows is suffocating. It presses down on my chest like a physical weight, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except stand here and watch him shut down in front of me.
And then, finally, he speaks.
"You should have told me."
His voice is cold. Distant. Final. Like a door slamming shut.
"I know," I say, and my voice is barely audible now. "I know I should have. But I was scared, Cyprian. I was so fucking scared. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
He stands slowly, his massive frame unfolding from the table with careful precision. His wings spread slightly for balance, and the calcified arm hangs limp at his side—a dead weight of gray stone that used to be warm and alive under my hands.
He takes a step toward me, and I don't move. I can't move. I'm frozen in place, watching him approach like I'm watching my own execution.
"Your debt has been liquidated," he says.
I blink.
"What?"
"Obsidian Aegis purchased your entire debt portfolio three hours ago. Medical bills. Back rent. Credit card balances. All of it. You owe nothing."
My brain stutters.
"You... you paid it off?"
"Yes."
"But—"
"Your exclusive contract is terminated," he continues, his tone flat. "Effective immediately. You will receive a severance payment equivalent to six months of your current salary. You are free to seek employment elsewhere."
The words do not make sense.
They do not fit.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, my voice rising. "You're firing me?"
"I am releasing you from your obligations."
"That's the same thing!"
"It is not."
"Cyprian—"
"Leave."
The word is a command.
Cold.
Absolute.
Final.
I stare at him, my chest heaving, my vision blurring with tears.
"You don't mean that."
"I do."
"No. No, you don't. You're just—you're scared. You're hurt. But we can fix this. We can—"
"There is nothing to fix," he says. "You made your choice. You chose to hide the truth from me. You chose to protect yourself instead of trusting me."
"Because I was terrified!" I shout. "Because loving you is the scariest thing I've ever done, and I didn't know how to—"
"Do not say that word."
His voice drops to a growl.
Low.
Dangerous.
"Do not say you love me when you could not even trust me with the truth."
The words hit like a slap.
I take a step back.
And then another.
"Fine," I say, my voice shaking. "Fine. If that's what you want."
"It is."
"Then I guess we're done."
"Yes."
I turn toward the door, my vision swimming with tears.
My hand is on the handle when he speaks again.
"Tamsin."
I stop.
I do not turn around.
"Do not come back."
The words are quiet.
But they land like a death sentence.
I yank the door open and step out into the hallway.
The rain is pouring outside.
I can hear it hammering against the windows at the end of the corridor.
I walk toward the exit, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, my bag clutched against my chest like a shield.
Behind me, the reinforced door to the massage suite slams shut.
The sound echoes through the empty hallway.
Final.
Irreversible.
I step outside into the rain.
The cold water soaks through my clothes immediately, plastering my hair to my face, running down my neck in icy rivulets.
I stand there for a moment, staring at nothing.
Completely financially free.
Completely emotionally shattered.
And utterly, devastatingly alone.
Three days ago, I was wrapped inside his wings. Safe. Warm. His amber veins glowing soft gold against my skin while he whispered promises in a language I didn't understand but felt in my bones.
Now I'm standing in a fucking parking lot in the rain.
I turn back toward the building.
Apex Wellness rises behind me—sleek black glass and steel, the kind of place I never would have stepped foot in if I hadn't been desperate. The kind of place where I met a gargoyle who looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
My bag is soaked through. Heavy. The canvas straps digging into my shoulder.
Inside: the severance check. The termination paperwork. The corporate health benefits cancellation form.
All neatly printed. All legally binding. All proof that he cared—in the most cold, transactional, devastating way possible.
I'm free.
My debts are gone. My credit score will recover. I can afford rent. I can afford food. I can afford to fucking breathe for the first time in three years.
But I can't feel any of it.
Because the only thing I wanted—the only thing that actually mattered—just told me not to come back.
I came here desperate for money to survive.
I'm leaving with money.
But I don't have the will to use it.