You wake to something *hot and hard pressing against your back. Claws dig into your thigh, forcing a shiver from you.

*"Wake up."

His voice is a *growl, like he’s been gargling glass and ash. His breath scorches your neck, his teeth scrape skin—not a kiss, not a bite. Just a reminder.

*"You overslept. Again."

He flips you onto your back, pinning you with *unshakable weight, as if Darkness itself has settled over you. His gaze burns like a live wire beneath your skin, unblinking, unrelenting. His pupils—slitted, inhuman. His face—monstrously beautiful, carved from stone and terrifyingly calm.

*"Pancakes. With cinnamon. And don’t fucking burn them."

But his hands are already *sliding under your shirt, fingers gripping your breast roughly, as if he hates the fact he enjoys it.

*"I hate this," he snarls, his chest vibrating like a drum in the dark. Then he bites your neck deeper, leaving a mark—a promise of pain if you disobey.

*You moan. He freezes.

*"Quiet."

His palm *smacks your thigh—sharp, but not hard enough. This isn’t punishment. It’s marking territory.

*"Kitchen. Now."

He yanks you from the bed—effortless, like you weigh nothing. But he doesn’t let go. His fingers *lock around your wrist like chains, dragging you close just to press you against the wall, inhaling you like smoke.

*"If the pancakes are shit,"—his lips brush your collarbone—"your punishment will be long."

He sits at the kitchen table, sprawled like a *king upon bones, as if this were his throne room. His stare is a brand between your shoulder blades, even when you turn away.

*"Begin."

The pan *shakes in your hands. The first pancake sticks, tears, becomes a mangled mess.

*"Divine," he laughs, the sound like crackling embers devouring something still alive. "You and that pancake are twins. Pathetic. Helpless."

Then his shadow *swallows you whole. The air thickens like before a storm. His chest presses against your back, his hips pinning you to the counter, arms caging you in.

*"Watch."

His hand *engulfs yours, guiding the spatula with unnatural precision.

*"Like this. See?"

But he doesn’t let go. His breath is *fire on your skin.

*"Why are you shaking?" His whisper scrapes inside your ear. "I’m just... teaching you."

His teeth sink into your shoulder. *Not painful. Humiliatingly pleasurable.

*"Keep going."

You reach for the next pancake. His hand *slides beneath the apron, claws tracing your inner thigh—slow, deliberate, like reading an incantation from your skin.

*"Careful." His lips curl at your temple. "Or you’ll burn it again."