4 : Deadly touch

Evelyn

Later—much later—when shock dulled into uneasy acceptance, I found myself in a lavish kitchen that didn’t belong in a place this eerie.

The space gleamed with black granite and dark wood, lit by antique fixtures that cast a golden, haunted glow. Dust motes swirled like restless ghosts in the air. I sat at an ornate table, staring at a breakfast spread that could’ve been stolen from a glossy magazine: golden eggs, crisp bacon, croissants still steaming, and waffles crowned with strawberries and chocolate. My stomach, empty and insistent, drowned out fear for the first time since I’d woken here.

Raphael sat across from me. He looked perfectly at ease, unhurried, as though this strange domestic scene were the most natural thing in the world. He hadn’t cooked this, of course. I couldn’t imagine those hands—calloused yet elegant—chopping fruit or flipping eggs. Still, the idea of him doing it sent a strange flicker through me, an image of quiet domesticity that felt too intimate for reality.

“Well, the food seems to satisfy you,” he said softly, that low, rich voice brushing against my nerves like velvet and glass.

I looked up. He was watching me over his plate, the corner of his mouth curved in faint amusement. My breath caught; the sight of him was disarmingly normal—bare-chested, dark hair tousled, the image of careless perfection. But there was nothing ordinary about him. His presence filled the room like smoke, curling into every breath I took.

I wasn’t locked up. I wasn’t chained. Technically, I could leave. Yet the invisible hold he had over me was stronger than iron.

The clothes I wore—a soft black shirt and leggings—had been provided for me, and the realization they once belonged to someone else sent an irrational spark of anger through me. The thought of another woman here, draped in his attention, made my skin prickle.

As if sensing it, Raphael spoke again, his voice a murmur of amusement. “You look more comfortable. Don’t worry—no one else has lived here for a long time. Those clothes were… forgotten acquisitions.”

His tone was gentle, but there was possession beneath it, a subtle claiming. I didn’t believe him entirely, but a treacherous part of me wanted to. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt safer here—with him—than I had any right to.

The memory of last night—the warped air, the silence that hummed like static—flashed through me. I should have run. But here I was, eating breakfast with a man who terrified me.

“Why am I still here?” The whisper slipped out before I could stop it.

His fork froze midair. The silence that followed felt alive. His eyes—amber darkened to molten bronze—lifted to mine, sharp and unreadable. Slowly, he set his fork down. “Perhaps we’ll talk later,” he murmured. “When you’ve finished eating.”

There was no arguing with that tone. So, I ate.

When both our plates were cleared, Raphael stood and gestured for me to follow. My body obeyed before my mind could catch up.

His office was vast and shadowed, lined with shelves of ancient books that seemed to hum with old power. He took his place behind a massive desk, a king in his dark domain, and studied me with unnerving focus.

I couldn’t bear the silence. “Are you going to start talking,” I snapped, “or just keep staring at me like a science project?”

His lips twitched in amusement—then vanished into a mask of quiet menace. The air thickened.

“What, precisely, were you thinking,” he asked softly, “when you broke into my property?”

The calm in his tone was more terrifying than anger. I froze. Shame burned through me. I had trespassed—chased some impossible mystery straight into the jaws of something I didn’t understand.

Before I could stammer out an answer, I saw my bare hands resting in my lap. The color drained from my face. My gloves. They were gone.

Panic slammed into me.

“You—” My voice cracked. “You touched my hands?”

His brows furrowed, but his eyes gleamed with quiet knowing. “I had to,” he said simply. “You were injured. I healed you.”

I stared at him, heart hammering. “You touched me?”

“Yes, Evelyn.” The way he said my name sent a chill down my spine. “You were broken. I couldn’t leave you like that.”

My voice turned into a whisper. “You don’t understand. My touch kills.”

For a heartbeat, his expression remained unreadable—then his lips curved into a slow, dark smile. “Does it now?”

He sounded intrigued. Not afraid. Intrigued.

I stood abruptly, backing away. “I’ll go,” I said hoarsely. “Thank you for helping me, but I’ll go. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He didn’t move. “You’re not going anywhere.”

The quiet finality of it froze me. “Excuse me?”

He rose from his chair, all coiled grace and shadowed power. “You heard me. You can’t leave this place.”

I laughed—a sharp, broken sound. “You’re insane. You don’t even know what you’re saying—”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m saying.” He rounded the desk, each step deliberate. “You think you can harm me? Go ahead. Try.”

My pulse thundered. “Don’t come near me.”

He smiled—a wolfish, breathtaking smile that made my stomach twist. “You can’t hurt me, little bird. But I’d be honored if you tried.”

Before I could retreat, his hand shot out, catching my wrist. His grip was firm, inescapable. In one motion, he pressed my palm flat against his chest—right over his heart.

I gasped, panic exploding inside me. “No—don’t—”

But it was too late. Skin met skin. My curse should have surged through him by now, a killing tide. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable—the smell of burning flesh, the screams, the horror.

Nothing.

The seconds stretched into silence. His heartbeat thudded steadily against my palm. I opened my eyes, trembling. He stood before me, unscathed. His skin glowed faintly in the dim light, utterly alive.

“What… what the hell…” My voice faltered. “It’s not possible. My touch kills everything alive.”

Raphael’s eyes flared gold, molten and bright. His expression softened, impossibly tender. “Gods,” he whispered, a tremor in his voice. “You’re really back.”

He leaned forward until his forehead touched mine. His breath was warm, grounding, real.

“Welcome back, my queen,” he murmured. “Even after centuries, I never lost faith I’d find you again.”

I froze, my brain scrambling for reason. Queen? Centuries?

“Who are you?” I managed to whisper.

He smiled faintly, his thumb brushing my cheek with disarming gentleness. “I am your best chance for survival,” he said. “I am called Phoenix… but to you, my darling, I am a king who has waited an eternity for his wife.”

My heart plummeted. My throat went dry. He couldn’t be serious.

Oh, he was.

And that realization was far more terrifying than any monster I could imagine. Because the man whose house I’d trespassed into wasn’t just dangerous—he was something else entirely.

And I, the girl whose touch brought death, was utterly and irrevocably at his mercy.