"And if he doesn’t?"

Nero did not answer at once.

The silence was not hesitation. Sylvia would have preferred hesitation. Hesitation would have meant conflict, perhaps shame, perhaps some fragile scrap of uncertainty still alive under all that polished Sahan composure.

Nero’s silence was calculation.

Finally, he said, "Then I won’t take him by force."

Sylvia stared at him.

"That should sound better than it does."

"It is the truth."

"No," she said quietly. "It is the lowest possible bar dressed as reassurance."

His smile sharpened.

"Good," Nero said. "Then you understand me."

Her fingers tightened in her lap.

The worst part was that she did.

"I won’t drag Sebastian to me," Nero said, his voice almost gentle, which made it more brutal. "I won’t corner him while he is frightened and call surrender consent. I won’t use his need for stabilization now because that would be crude. If I wanted something crude, I would have already done it."

Sylvia felt the color drain from her face.

"Do not misunderstand me," Nero continued. "I want him. I want his attention, his anger, his trust, his body, his future, his scent in my rooms, his name tied to mine so thoroughly that no court, law, family, or biological inconvenience can separate us without bleeding for it."

The words did not rise but were kept level, making Sylvia’s stomach clench.

"But I am young," Nero said. "So is he. We are not finished becoming whatever we are going to become. Sebastian is still figuring out how to define his own fear. I am still learning the difference between patience and restraint."

Sylvia let out a strained breath. "That is a terrifying sentence."

"Yes."

"You say that too easily."

"Because it’s true."

His gaze flicked once toward Hale, standing near the entrance, close enough to intervene and far enough to hear nothing.

Then Nero looked back at Sylvia.

"I will not do it now."

"To Sebastian?"

"To anyone," Nero said. "Not yet."

Sylvia almost laughed. It sat in her throat like broken glass.

"There it is."

Nero inclined his head. "Yes. There it is."

"You are not asking whether you should."

"No."

"You are asking how."

"Yes."

"And you want me to help you find out."

"I want to know what happens when I use what I am," Nero said. "Not in theory. Not in reports. I want to know what changes first. Whether the secondary system resists. Whether the original classification collapses or fractures. Whether the mind follows the body cleanly or suffers delay. Whether dominance emerges as instinct, pain, hunger, fever, violence, or all of them together."

Sylvia’s stomach turned.

"I want to know," he said, still calm, "before I ever place that possibility in Sebastian’s hands."

"You make that sound almost noble."

"It isn’t."

"Then stop talking like you are protecting him."

"I am protecting him," Nero said. "That does not make me kind."

The answer struck her harder than it should have.

Because he meant both parts.

Sylvia looked down at her untouched wine. "And me?"

Nero’s face changed.

"You are not Sebastian."

"I noticed."

"I like you," Nero said.

The simplicity of it disarmed her for half a second.

Then he continued.

"I trust you more than I would trust a stranger desperate enough to volunteer for the wrong reasons. I trust you to hate me if it hurts. I trust you to tell me exactly what changes. I trust you not to romanticize the experience because the result might give you something you want."

Sylvia’s throat tightened.

"Thomas."

"Yes."

"That is cruel."

"I would prefer it to be you," Nero said. "Someone whose mind I respect. Someone I would protect afterward not only because it is politically necessary, but also because I would be angry if the world damaged her after I had already done so."

Her eyes narrowed. "You hear yourself, right?"

"Yes."

"You just called me someone you’d damage."

"I told you I wouldn’t lie."

Sylvia laughed once, breathless and horrified. "That is not the moral achievement you think it is."

"I don’t think it is moral."

The candlelight carved shadows beneath his eyes. For the first time, Sylvia saw the fatigue there. Nero had carried this idea for so long that it was no longer an impulse but a plan.

"I am being cruel," he said. "I know that. I know what it means to put this thought in your head. I know that when Thomas looks at you gently, or when he leaves again, or when you remember that biology has placed a wall where desire might have become a door, you will think of this table."

Sylvia’s eyes burned.

"And you still asked."

Nero’s expression did not change.

"I asked because one day, you will want to offer him the peace he deserves."

Sylvia stilled.

"Even so, with Sebastian will be different," Nero said, "it will not be an experiment."

The sentence was quiet.

It was also the coldest thing he had said all night.

For Sebastian, he prepared a miracle sharpened by someone else’s pain.

"You are monstrous," she whispered.

Nero accepted it with a faint dip of his head. "Sometimes."

"No. Not sometimes."

His mouth curved without humor. "More often than people would prefer?"

"More often than anyone should be comfortable with."

"What if I say no?" she asked.

"Then you say no."

"And you let me walk away?"

"Yes."

"What if I tell Dean?"

"You won’t."

Her gaze snapped up.

Nero did not look smug.

"That is not a threat," he said. "Telling Dean would not make the offer disappear from your mind. It would only place him in the position of trying to protect you from a choice that already belongs to you."

Sylvia hated that enough to want to throw the wine at him.

She did not.

Mostly because the wine looked expensive and because some terrible part of her knew he was right.

Dean would panic. Arion would become silent in a way that made rooms take damage. Lucas would probably find out, because Lucas had the instincts of a beautiful knife. And then the choice would stop being hers. It would become a royal crisis held above her head by people trying to shield her.

Nero was cruel.

He was also giving her privacy and choice.

Damn him.

"When?" she asked, hating herself a little for the word.

"When you are ready."

"I may never be ready."

"Then never."

"I don’t want to do it now," Nero said. "I wouldn’t, even if you agreed tonight. Fear, shock, and temptation are not consent. I want your answer when you are calm enough to understand what you are handing me."

Sylvia swallowed. "And if that takes a year?"

"Then it takes a year."

"A year from now?"

"If that is what you need."

"And if after a year I still don’t know?"

"Then you don’t know."

His calm was unbearable.

"Why give me that long?"

"Because if you say yes, I need to trust the answer." His voice lowered. "And because I need time to grow into the kind of person who can do this without turning it into violence."

For one brief, terrible second, the death angel across from her looked almost young.

Sylvia looked at the ruined fries, the cold wings, and the untouched wine.

Outside the window, Palatine glittered as if the world had not shifted slightly on its axis.

Sylvia laughed weakly. "That is possibly the worst comfort anyone has ever offered me."

"I told you I am not kind."

"No," she said, looking at him across the candlelight. "You are not."

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Nero said, "I will not ask again unless you bring it up. You have time. As much as you need within what remains reasonable for me to learn."

Sylvia nodded once in acknowledgment.

Then she reached for one of the cold fries and ate it out of spite.

It tasted like salt, oil, and the beginning of a decision she wished had never been offered.

Across the room, Hale remained by the entrance, seeing everything and hearing nothing.

Sylvia envied him.