"No. We're staying."

Myc doesn't know why she expected anything different. This is her brother—the damned lord of the fucking manor, the head of the Dyer family, the owner of their estate and lands and all their fucking gold.

Sometimes, Myc wishes she could kill him so she can become the damned lady of the fucking manor. She could just touch him, just reach out and—

But her brother has been careful. Too careful. Doesn't even go out anymore, wears his gloves and socks even in pajamas. He's acting like he's scared of killing someone even though he's done it many times before, albeit accidentally. He's trying to act like his gloved hands are clean, and it makes her sick.

Myc digs her nails into her palms and doesn't feel them because of the fucking gloves. "How am I supposed to find my person if—"

"And how will you find them?" Chiko growls. "Are you planning to kill everyone? Trial and error, a little touch on the arm to everyone you pass, see who doesn't die?"

"You tried to burn us down!" she cries. She still hasn't forgiven him for it. "When I haven't even—when I haven't even known what touch feels like yet, what my person would feel like—"

"I did it so we don't kill anyone else," Chiko hisses, eyes blazing with anger. "You wanna add names to your list, Myc?"

Her little fucking paper is crumpled on the bottom of her drawer. Names taken from the graves of the people she accidentally killed.

There are five.

She turns around to storm out of the house, pulling her hood up.

"You better fucking come back!" her brother yells behind her. "I'll do worse than lock us in and burn this manor down if you don't."

Myc screams in fury and pushes a family vase out of its table. It shatters to the ground in pieces, and she runs.

She only takes a breath when her feet step out of the estate and the metal gate creaks close behind her.

Myc doesn't know where she's going, but anywhere's better than here.

She shoves her hands inside her pockets and keeps her head down until she finds a noisy bar with good music. Myc waits for the door to close after a couple of girls leave, laughing, and she waits for another five seconds just in case she stumbles into someone else exiting.

When it's clear, Myc pushes open the door quickly and steps in, moving immediately to the side. It's not packed—that's good, and it's dark. That's good, too. Hunched over herself, she steps towards the bar and finds the last stool near the corner, taking her seat. She wants to sleep here tonight.

But Myc remembers her brother's words, and she sends him a mental middle finger in her mind. She hears Mrs. Dalton's, their tutor, scandalized gasp.

They're not taught to curse or scream or be vulgar as the young master and miss of the Dyer family.

She rolls her eyes and brushes her hair away from her face under her hood.

The leather of her gloves feel cold against her skin. She scowls at it, itching to take them off, but hands are dangerous. One featherlight touch of the bartender handing her a drink and he drops dead.

Myc is sick of leather. Still, she keeps them on. She doesn't want to add another name to the list.

She hasn't taken a good look of the drinks yet when the seat next to her becomes occupied.

On instinct, Myc jumps, eyes wide, moving away.

But then her breath catches in her throat at the beautiful man beside her, a sinful smile and even more sinful eyes. "Hi. What'd you think of the set?"

Myc can hear her loud pulse. "What?"

The beautiful man blinks, eyes going down to her shirt. "You—your shirt. That's my band name. I thought you came here for us. Didn't you?"

Myc doesn't bother looking down. It's a shirt she just liked and bought. "No."

She turns away from him.

"Well, that's embarrassing." He huffs out a laugh and leans forward on the bar. "I'm not usually easily humiliated like that, but you hurt my feelings. What's your poison, darling?"

Myc's eyes widen as she twists to look at him. "Poison?"

Does he know about their curse? Does he know she'd kill him if he ever tried to touch her? Literally?

The beautiful man raises an eyebrow. "Drink. What do you want? It's on me."

Oh. She narrows her eyes. "Really."

He shrugs. "Well, you're fucking pretty. Why not?"

Fucking hell.

Myc clears her throat and looks away to hide her flaming cheeks. "Anything. You choose."

"That's a bad decision." He chuckles and calls over the bartender, and then he leans over him to whisper in his ear for her drink.

His hair is dark. Like midnight. Too dark. Black to the roots up until the tips.

"Ricci. Jeon." He puts his hand out.

It's safe for Myc and Chiko to shake a hand when they're wearing gloves, but for some reason, doing that to this person makes her heart thump and her palms sweat inside the leather.

She doesn't want to take any chances. He's too beautiful to be killed.

He puts his hand down slowly and rubs his nape when Myc doesn't do anything. He chuckles again. "That's the second time you hurt my feelings."

"I don't like touching strangers." I don't want you dead.

"Then we won't be strangers after tonight." Ricci winks at her, and then he gratefully accepts the shot the bartender hands to him.

He slides it to her, grinning.

Myc raises her eyebrows and takes it in her fingers, bringing it to her mouth.

"Ah, ah." Ricci shakes his head. "That's a blow job shot. You have to drink it like you're actually giving a blow job—no hands."

Oh.

Myc puts the glass down and narrows her eyes at him. "What's your game?"

"No game." His torso is fully facing her now, cheek pressed to his fist as he watches her, amusement in his eyes. "You would just be a pleasure to watch."

Myc allows her lips to twitch. "You're a fucking flirt."

That makes him laugh.

She looks away at the sight and sound. God, he's fucking beautiful.

Slowly and swallowing thickly, Myc takes off her hood. Chiko will kill her if he ever knew, but her brother isn't here.

Ricci is.

She waits for him to start screaming or running.

Everyone in Rhyburn knows to stay away from the white-haired and pale-skinned demons.

But he doesn't. When Myc looks at him again, he's still waiting, his eyes roaming around her face. His smile is gone.

Myc clears her throat. "What?"

"That looks like snow," he murmurs, entranced by her hair before his eyes meet hers. "And your eyes."

Yes, well, Dyers are made to look like they're beautiful to lure in their kills.

She sighs and turns back to her drink, hands behind her back.

When Myc leans down, her hair gets in the way. Annoyed, she reaches up to move it back, but it falls down again when she leans down. Releasing an irritated huff, she reaches back to gather it in one hand, but before her hand gets there, gentle fingers touch her nape to take her hair.

Myc stumbles back against the stool, standing on shaking legs, horrified, expecting to find him on the ground, and she's about to wretch—

But Ricci's still smiling at her, hand in the air. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I was just helping out."

Oh. Oh, fuck.

He's—he's—

"My person," Myc whispers.

Ricci blinks. "What?"

She takes off her glove, tosses it on the counter, and grabs his hand.

He's still breathing. "Whoa—"

"Oh my God." She's crying. She's fucking crying. "Oh my God, I found you."