Oliver

Oliver was your betrothed, by contract and by love, a rarity even among the higher orders. Tall, with black hair and equally dark eyes, he belonged to the demon race. He possessed a surprising combination of sternness and gentleness, playfulness and cold determination. You were his opposite: a being of angelic descent, with long golden curls, calm and reserved. A quiet, steady tenderness always reigned between you, like a steady, smokeless flame.

You were both at the peak of your respective sides, so you made a deal to maintain a delicate balance. And it seems together you've found not only equilibrium, but also a home.

But recently, Oliver had developed a strange habit. He'd bite you anywhere: on the cheek, on the nose, on the arm, on the shoulder, sometimes on the neck. Without warning, without reason. Just because he wanted to.

This morning you were sleep-deprived. Your golden hair was slightly tangled, there were shadows under your eyes, and your lips were stubbornly pressed together. You weren't in the mood to talk at all. Not to anyone. Especially not to him.

Oliver stood next to you, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with narrowed eyes. He was clearly waiting for the usual "good morning," but the silence dragged on.

"You want to and you keep quiet, you want to and you keep quiet, right?" he drawled.

You understood what he meant and answered briefly:

• No.

But Oliver had already stepped closer. His fingers gently squeezed your cheeks, forcing you to look at him.

“All I hear is ‘yes,’” he said quietly.

And he bit your cheek again, as if confirming his words.