I paced slowly between racks of mortal clothing, still fuming.
About everything.
About how he looked. About how he walked out of that fitting room like fate wrapped in thread. About how my body had the audacity to react like I was a normal girl and not a genetically weaponized freak of nature with trust issues and trauma.
I didn't like this feeling.
I didn't like him—not really. Not yet.
I liked control. Sharp edges. Knowing my enemies.
Darian was none of those things.
He was a question with no clean answer.
I tried to distract myself by looking at more clothes.
Darian had said we'd need more than one outfit.
Which, I prayed, wasn't true—because I had no intention of staying in this world a second longer than necessary.
But still. I looked.
Tried.
Hated everything.
There was a section labeled "Combat Core" and I had hope for exactly 0.3 seconds before discovering it was mostly cropped vests and cargo pants with rhinestones.
I held up a top made entirely of mesh and sighed like it personally betrayed me.
Sylas, on the other hand, had apparently decided to commit to his new mortal identity.
He floated past me like a peacock on payday, arms loaded with so many shirts, jackets, scarves, and glitter-coated disasters that I was genuinely impressed he could still walk.
"This should be illegal," I muttered, eyeing his pile.
"Fashion," he said over his shoulder, "is a battlefield, darling."
He disappeared toward the registers.
I stood in the middle of the store, staring at nothing, arms empty.
Then I heard him.
Darian.
He returned quietly, always too quiet for a man his size, holding only a few pieces—dark shirts, gloves, another long coat. All black. All sleek.
He glanced at me.
At my hands.
"Nothing?"
I shrugged. "I hate everything."
He didn't argue. He just let out a small sigh through his nose and nodded like he expected it.
Then, without a word, he walked to the front and paid.
The total on the screen made Sylas audibly gasp.
"Do we own the store now?" he whispered.
Darian didn't blink. Just handed over the cash like he was buying chewing gum.
I stared at him.
Who the hell was this man?
Once the bags were packed and chaos was wrangled into one neat receipt, Darian turned to us.
"We need phones."
I frowned. "Why."
He gave me a flat look. "Because smoke signals are slow and pigeons are unreliable."
"I meant why me."
"Because you're in the mortal world now," he said. "And I'm not letting you walk into danger without a way to reach me."
I stared at him.
He said it like it was obvious. Like it was nothing.
Like it wasn't the first time someone had said I'm not letting you out of my reach and actually meant it.
And it hit.
Hard.
Because yes, I had Sylas.
And yes, he cared about me. I knew that. He'd trained me, bled beside me, pissed me off more than anyone alive.
But Sylas was like… an older brother with a god complex and a dagger addiction. He protected me the same way he teased me—loud, sarcastic, and with absolutely zero emotional maturity.
And yes, I had Aven.
But Aven wasn't warmth. Aven was a sword. Cold, sharp, and deadly.
He trained me because Darian told him to.
He watched me nearly die because Darian ordered it.
He never said don't go alone. Never said I'll be there.
So when Darian said it—when he said it—
It made something in my chest lurch sideways and try to claw its way out of my ribs.
Because he's my soulmate.
Because it matters when he says things like that.
Because it makes me want to punch a wall and then crawl into his arms and then punch him for making me feel this way.
I want to rip my own heart out just so it stops beating so fast.
I've known him for what—three days?
I need to chill.
But no one chills when they meet the one soul the universe carved to match theirs.
Most soulmates get married within a week.
Some within days.
But then again…
Most soulmates don't immediately get hunted by five kingdoms.
Most soulmates aren't dragged into the mortal world for a god-killing dagger that Darian refuses to explain.
I was about to scream internally for the fiftieth time when Darian's voice broke through.
"We can't buy phones at the Apple Store," he said casually, like we weren't both emotionally combusting.
I blinked. "Why?"
He didn't miss a beat. "Because your face will probably break the biometric sensors and the AI surveillance will explode."
Sylas snorted behind us. "Oh, I love this plan already."
I blinked.
"Did you just make a joke?"
Darian didn't look at me. "No."
Sylas let out a choked laugh. "Oh gods, he did. He made a joke. Are we dying? Is this the end? Should I start writing my will in glitter?"
I ignored him. Mostly.
My brain was too busy short-circuiting again. First the protective soulmate line, now jokes? Casual deadpan sarcasm?
This man was dangerous.
"We'll use a smaller store," Darian continued, totally unaffected. "Cash only. No cameras. No paper trails."
"Oh," Sylas said, still smirking. "The shady kind of store. I feel so at home."
Darian handed him the bags. "Good. You can carry these."
Sylas scowled. "Soulmates don't get to be smug, y'know."
Darian raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you still breathing?"
I nearly choked.
Sylas let out an exaggerated gasp and stumbled back like he'd been shot.
"Okay wow," he said. "You really are made for her."
I rolled my eyes and stormed ahead, refusing to acknowledge that my face was, in fact, turning red.
They followed.
We walked out of the store, bags in hand, magic simmering low in our veins.
And even though the city still reeked of smoke, gasoline, and something rotten…
For a moment—just a moment—
I didn't feel hunted.
I felt like a team.
A very unstable, sarcastic, dangerously well-dressed team.
But it wouldn't last.
Because the next stop was a black-market phone shop run by a witch with a grudge…
And after that?
The first lead on the dagger.
And I had a feeling neither would go smoothly.