My breath hitched. Azrael. Leaning against a lamppost. Eating fries. My fries, probably. In the real world. Right outside my apartment. My upgraded apartment with the weird new uniform and the phone that called me Sera Drevane.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a hallucination. He was here. Like he'd just popped down the block for a snack. Married to Death, trapped in his mansion, given a job to anchor my soul… and he followed me home. Of course he did. "Can't have my bride getting too far from Death," he'd whispered, his voice a silken threat that still echoed in my ears.
Panic began to simmer, low and dangerous, beneath the surface of my shock. He was real. This was real. The black ring on my finger pulsed with a faint, cold energy, a possessive thrum against my skin, confirming it.
My gaze flickered to the new phone on the desk. The screen was still lit up. 8:30 AM. And the notification: Orientation at 9:00 AM sharp. The Daily Grind Cafe.
8:30. 9:00. Thirty minutes. To get ready. Figure out this uniform. And somehow process the fact that my husband, the actual Grim Reaper, was loitering outside eating hypothetical fries. Thirty minutes to somehow appear like a functional human being and start a brand new job that I only had because my soul was accidentally bound to a cosmic entity.
My stomach plummeted. There was no way. No way I could be ready in thirty minutes. My hair was a disaster. I hadn't showered. I didn't even know how to use this fancy new phone or where to find the address on the map link without getting lost.
Then, frustration boiled over. This was his fault! He trapped me! He made me sleep! He plopped me back here with zero warning and a cosmic alarm clock ticking down to a job I never applied for!
My hand shot out, grabbing the new phone. It felt smooth, cold. I tapped the screen, fumbling with the controls until I found the contacts list. There was only one entry. Azrael. No last name. Just Azrael. With a number that glowed faintly with that same dark energy as the ring.
I didn't hesitate. I tapped the call button.
It rang once. Twice. A low, resonant hum vibrated through the phone before he picked up.
"Sera. Awake, I see." His voice, calm and deep, was immediately recognizable. And infuriatingly serene, like a predator watching its prey.
"Azrael! What the hell?!" I practically shrieked into the phone. "It's 8:30! My orientation is at 9:00! I'm not ready! You made me late!"
A faint, almost imperceptible sound came from his end. It might have been amusement, a dark chuckle that sent shivers down my spine. "I did not make you late, Sera. You awoke at this temporal marker. Your internal clock is a mortal construct."
"My 'internal clock' wasn't the problem!" I paced across the room, the phone pressed tight against my ear. "You dragged me to your haunted mansion, revealed you're Death, married me, forced me to sleep, and then dumped me back here thirty minutes before I have to start a job I didn't even apply for! This is on you!"
"The job is necessary for your stability," he stated, his voice dropping a fraction, a velvet growl that hinted at impatience. "A tether."
"I don't care about the tether right now!" I stopped pacing, gesturing wildly with my free hand. "I need to shower! And wash my hair! And figure out this uniform! And put on makeup! And somehow look like I'm not about to have a complete existential breakdown! Thirty minutes isn't enough time!"
Silence. Then, his voice, dangerously smooth. "State your requirements."
"My requirements?!" I spluttered. "I require approximately two hours of normal human preparation time! Which I don't have!"
"Specific actions," he clarified, his patience a thin veneer over something much darker. "Bathing. Cleansing of hair. Adorning the provided garments. Application of facial pigments."
Facial pigments. He meant makeup. Of course he did. He probably cataloged every shade of blush since the dawn of time. The thought was both absurd and unsettling.
"Yes! All of that! And I have like, twenty-eight minutes left!" I checked the phone again, my panic spiking.
Another pause. Then, the faint sound of air shifting, even though he wasn't in the room. A sudden warmth blossomed around me, not the cold of the mansion, but a gentle, invasive heat.
"Step into the cleansing facility," his voice instructed from the phone, each word a silken command. Cleansing facility? He meant the bathroom. Right.
I ran into the new, sparkling clean bathroom. It was surprisingly nice, far too luxurious for a mere "tethered soul."
"Remove your current attire," he commanded, his voice a low purr that sent a jolt straight through me.
My hand froze on the hem of my shirt. "What? Why? Can you… can you see me?" The thought sent a flush of heat creeping up my neck.
"I am assisting in your preparations, Sera. Compliance will expedite the process." His tone brooked no argument.
A heavy sigh escaped him, a sound of pure, dark indulgence that vibrated through the phone. "Sera, darling. Do you truly believe a locked door, or mere mortal walls, could impede my senses if I wished it?" His voice was a caress, a terrifying intimacy. "Now, be a good girl and undress. We are on a schedule."
My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my pajamas. The thought of him seeing me, even unseen, was mortifying, yet a strange, rebellious flicker ignited within me. Fine. He wanted a show? My old, slightly frayed cotton bra and panties weren't exactly boudoir material, but they were mine. As the last piece of clothing fell away, I heard it – a distinct, low groan from his end of the phone, a guttural sound that was undeniably appreciative and possessive. It made my stomach clench.
"Close your eyes," he murmured, his voice now thick, laced with something I couldn't quite decipher – hunger, perhaps.
Against my better judgment, I squeezed my eyes shut. Warm water, impossibly soft, enveloped me. It wasn't a shower spray, but more like being submerged in a heated cloud. Then, I felt it – a phantom touch, fingers, impossibly gentle yet firm, gliding over my skin, sending shivers down my spine. They traced the curve of my neck, down my shoulders, across my collarbone. My breath hitched. This wasn't just water; it felt like him.
The spectral hands moved to my hair, massaging my scalp with an expertise that was both divine and deeply unsettling. The scent of lilies and something ancient, like petrichor and starlight, filled the air as my hair was lathered and rinsed in a single, fluid motion. The water sluiced over my body, and those unseen hands… they weren't rough, but they were thorough, soaping and rinsing every inch of me with an agonizingly slow precision. It was the most intimate, violating, and perversely sensual experience of my life. I felt a blush creep from my chest to my hairline.
When the phantom caresses finally receded and the warm mist began to dry my skin and hair with impossible speed, I was trembling. "Okay," I managed, my voice breathy. "I'm… I'm clean. And my hair… feels weirdly dry?" I opened my eyes. My skin tingled, flushed, and impossibly soft.
"Excellent," Azrael's voice was still thick, that dark amusement back in his tone. "Now, the garments."
I ran back into the bedroom, my heart pounding, grabbing the uniform. It was basic, plain. "Okay, I have the uniform. What now? Are you going to magically dress me too?!" The thought of those phantom hands on me again was… complicated.
"It is… expedient," he replied, the possessiveness in his voice coiling around me. "However, I trust you can manage this task." I could almost hear the smirk in his voice.
Grumbling, I stripped off my damp towel and pulled on the uniform. The pants fit perfectly. The shirt was comfortable. Of course it was. Death probably had cosmic tailors.
"Okay, dressed," I said, holding up the shirt, reading the name tag again. "And what about this, 'Sera Drevane'?! You changed my name?!"
"A necessary formality," he replied smoothly. "You are my wife, are you not, Sera? It is customary for a bride to take her husband's name. Drevane is ancient, powerful. It suits you."
"Suits me?!" I repeated, my voice shaking. "My name is Sera Quinn! Quinn! You can't just erase it! I have a whole life attached to that name! Friends! A… a best friend! Cam!" The arrogance of him, deciding my identity!
"Camille Torres," he stated, his voice calm, yet with an underlying note of steel. He knew Cam's name? How?! "Her records remain unchanged. Your previous surname, however, is… less convenient for our current arrangement. As my consort, Drevane offers you a certain… protection. A connection."
"Her records?! You looked up her records?! What else have you done?!" I was spiraling. This was too much. The intimacy, the control…
"Minimal adjustments necessary for your re-integration," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Now. Facial pigments. Your… cat-eye presentation requires focus. Close proximity to a reflective surface is advised."
Facial pigments. My cat-eye liner. Even Death, my terrifying, cosmic husband, knew about my signature cat-eye liner. The sheer absurdity of it almost made me laugh, a hysterical sound bubbling in my throat.
I grabbed my old makeup bag – somehow transferred here – and ran back to the mirror.
"Okay, cat-eye time," I muttered, pulling out my liner. My hand was still shaking slightly.
"Focus," Azrael's voice said from the phone, a velvet command. "Precision is key. Allow me."
I tried to concentrate, but every time my hand wavered, I felt that faint, unseen pressure, steadying me, guiding the liner with an almost supernatural skill. It was like having a very calm, very creepy, and infuriatingly attractive ghost ensuring my eyeliner was flawless.
Five minutes later, my cat-eye was perfect. Unnervingly perfect. "Okay, fine," I grumbled. "That was… surprisingly effective. Still creepy as hell, but effective."
"Efficiency is a virtue, my dear," he replied, a hint of dark satisfaction in his tone. "Now. Your means of transit."
"Means of transit?"
"Transportation. To your destination."
"Oh. Right." I looked around the apartment. No car keys. "Uh, do I even have a car?"
"A vehicle has been procured," he said. "Suitable for your… current needs. Consider it a wedding gift, Sera."
A wedding gift? My ears perked up despite myself. A new car from my ridiculously wealthy, albeit terrifying, husband? "What kind of car?" A tiny thrill shot through me. Maybe being married to Death had some perks.
"One of substance. Dependable. Fast. Something… elegant," he said, and for a moment, I heard a flicker of something that might have been pride. "Shall I arrange its presence at your location? Or would you prefer… I convey you myself?"
"Convey me?"
"Transport you. Physically."
The image of him materializing here, all dark power and imposing presence, lifting me up, his arms around me, and whisking me away at supernatural speed flashed in my mind. The thought was both terrifying and undeniably tempting in a way that scared me. No. Definitely no. Too much, too soon.
"No thank you," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "I'll take the car. I need to, you know, drive myself. On my first day. Establish dominance."
"A logical course of action," he agreed, a hint of amusement in his voice. "The vehicle is located at the curb directly beneath your position."
At the curb? I ran to the window overlooking the street where I'd just seen him. He was gone. But parked right there, curb-side, was a car that made my jaw drop. It wasn't just 'of substance.' It was a sleek, black beast of a machine, gleaming like polished obsidian. Something expensive. Something dangerously fast. Something that screamed power and luxury, utterly out of place on my normal street. It looked less like a car and more like a promise of speed, danger, and forbidden pleasure.
My inner chaos magnet, the one that always got me into trouble, let out a silent, gleeful cheer. My outer self was still oscillating between acute panic and a disbelieving awe.
"Whoa," I breathed, my hand pressed to the glass. "Okay. That's… quite the ride. Is that… really mine now?"
"Yours to command," he replied, his voice a low, possessive rumble that vibrated through the phone and straight into my core. "As is necessary for the anchoring process. It symbolizes your mobility, your agency… and your new status."
My agency. In a car effectively gifted by Death, who'd erased my name, sensually bathed me without touching me, and stuck me in a barista uniform. The irony was almost too much to bear.
"Right," I said, still staring at the car, a strange mix of resentment and thrill coiling in my stomach. "My 'agency.' So, the address for this cafe… is it in the map link?"
"Precisely," he confirmed. "Ensure you arrive promptly. Tardiness is inefficient, Sera. And I will know if you are."
Tardiness is inefficient. Said the ancient entity who had just thrown my entire existence into chaos thirty minutes before a shift, and was now acting like my personal, highly possessive, cosmic chaperone.
"I wouldn't be tardy if you hadn't…" I stopped. No point arguing about it now. I had a terrifying job, an insanely hot car I probably didn't deserve, and a husband from hell who could magically wash my hair, make me blush with phantom touches, and track my whereabouts.
"I'm going," I said, picking up the new backpack that was presumably packed with everything I needed. "I'll… call you later? Maybe? If I don't spontaneously combust from sheer overwhelm?"
"I will be… present," he said, his voice holding a note of dark finality, a promise that sent another shiver down my spine. "As required by the Pact. Do not disappoint me on your first day… wife."
Wife. The word, laced with his possessive tone, still felt alien, a brand on my soul. He hung up.
I stared at the phone. Then at the uniform. Then at the black ring, which pulsed with a faint, knowing warmth. Then out the window at the impossible car. And somewhere, out there, my best friend Cam was probably still worried sick after I disappeared yesterday. I had to find a way to contact her. To let her know I was… mostly… okay. And maybe find a way to explain what was happening without sounding completely insane.
First though, barista duties. And surviving my first encounter with my Manager. And maybe, just maybe, unleashing some frustration behind the wheel of that incredible car.
I grabbed the backpack and keys (magically on the desk now, next to the phone). Time to face the daily grind. With Death as my co-pilot, it seemed. And a very confusing, very intense knot of something that might be attraction, or just sheer terror, tightening in my chest.