The Preparation
Nana stared at her closet like it had personally offended her.
"It's just dinner," she muttered to herself. "A normal dinner. With Rafayel. Who happens to be a Sea God. And your soulmate. And the most beautiful man you've ever seen. Just. Normal. Dinner."
She pulled out a dress—pale blue, knee-length, simple but elegant. The kind of thing that said "I tried but not too hard" even though she'd been trying for the past hour.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Rafayel: *I'm outside. Take your time. I'll wait forever if I have to. (But please don't make me wait forever. I'm excited to see you.)*
Nana smiled despite her nerves. She applied one more layer of lip gloss, checked her hair one more time, grabbed her small purse, and headed out.
The moment she stepped outside her apartment building, her breath caught.
Rafayel leaned against a sleek black sports car—something low and expensive and completely impractical—looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine photoshoot. Dark pants, a deep purple shirt that somehow made his eyes even more striking, hair artfully messy in that way that looked effortless but probably took effort.
He straightened when he saw her, and his expression went soft.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," Nana managed. "Is that—did you buy a car?"
"I'm test driving it," Rafayel said, but the way he said it suggested otherwise. "For a certain cutie I know who rides a motorcycle and probably shouldn't be riding a motorcycle because it's dangerous and what if she gets hurt—"
"Rafayel," Nana interrupted, walking closer. "You bought a car because you're worried about my motorcycle?"
"I'm not worried," Rafayel lied terribly. "I'm just... providing options. Safe options. Options that have airbags and seatbelts and don't require balancing on two wheels at high speeds."
Nana laughed, and something in Rafayel's expression melted at the sound.
"You're ridiculous," she said fondly.
"Ridiculously in love with you," Rafayel corrected, and pulled a bouquet from behind his back—white roses mixed with small blue flowers that matched her dress. "For you."
Nana took them, her cheeks warming. "Thank you. They're beautiful."
"Not as beautiful as you," Rafayel said automatically, then seemed to realize how cheesy that sounded. "Sorry. That was—"
"Perfect," Nana interrupted. She went up on her tiptoes—all 158cm of her trying to reach his considerably taller frame—and grabbed his collar, pulling him down. "Come here."
Rafayel bent obligingly, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek. Soft and quick and sweet.
Their routine. Their thing.
But this time, when she pulled back, Rafayel's eyes were darker. More intense.
"We should go," he said, voice slightly rough. "Before I forget we have dinner reservations and just kiss you right here on the street."
"Your fans would never forgive me," Nana said lightly, trying to ignore how her heart was racing.
"I don't care about my fans right now," Rafayel said, opening the passenger door for her. "I only care about you."
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🐚🐚🐚
The Dinner
The restaurant was beautiful—upscale but not intimidating, with soft lighting and a view of the city that sparkled like stars brought down to earth.
They were seated at a private table on the rooftop garden, fairy lights strung overhead, soft music playing in the background. It was the kind of place designed for romance, for proposals, for moments that people would remember forever.
"This is—" Nana looked around, overwhelmed. "Rafayel, this is too much."
"It's not enough," Rafayel corrected, reaching across the table to take her hand. "You deserve this. And more. And everything."
They ordered food—though Nana barely tasted it, too focused on the man across from her, on the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world, on the way his thumb traced circles on the back of her hand.
They talked about everything and nothing. About his paintings and her missions. About favorite foods and childhood memories. About dreams for the future that now, impossibly, included each other.
"I want to take you traveling," Rafayel said at one point. "Show you places I've seen over three hundred years. Cities that have changed, places that haven't. Sunsets from every corner of the world."
"I'd like that," Nana said softly.
"And I want—" Rafayel stopped, looking vulnerable. "I want to paint you. Properly. Not secretly, not from memory. I want you to sit for me while I try to capture what it feels like to look at you. Though I don't think any painting could do you justice."
"You're going to make me cry," Nana warned.
"Don't cry," Rafayel said immediately. "Or do cry. Your tears are beautiful too. Everything about you is beautiful."
They were interrupted by a announcement over the restaurant's speakers: "Ladies and gentlemen, in celebration of tonight, we're hosting a fireworks display. Please join us on the rooftop to watch."
Rafayel stood, offering his hand. "Shall we?"
Nana took it, letting him lead her to the edge of the rooftop where other couples were gathering. He positioned them slightly apart from the crowd, his arms around her waist, her back against his chest.
"Perfect view," Rafayel murmured against her ear.
"The fireworks haven't started yet," Nana pointed out.
"I wasn't talking about the fireworks."
And then the sky exploded in color.
Gold and silver and blue and pink—cascading across the darkness like falling stars, like magic made visible, like joy given physical form. Each burst was accompanied by gasps from the crowd, but Nana barely heard them.
She was too aware of Rafayel behind her. His heartbeat against her back. His breath near her ear. The way his arms tightened slightly with each burst of light.
"This is perfect," she whispered.
"Yes," Rafayel agreed. "It is."
And then the wind picked up—just a gust, nothing major—but enough to make her dress flutter, to shift the fabric.
Rafayel's arms stiffened.
"Nana," he said, his voice changing. "What's that on your knee?"
"What?" Nana looked down, and her stomach dropped.
The dress had shifted with the wind, revealing a purple-black bruise spreading across her left knee. Large enough to be concerning. Dark enough to suggest serious impact.
"It's nothing—" she started, but Rafayel was already moving.
He turned her around, his hands gentle but firm on her shoulders. "Nothing? Nana, that's not nothing."
"It's just a small injury from my last mission," Nana said, trying to downplay it. "The Wanderer knocked me into a wall. It looks worse than it is—"
"You're hiding your injuries from me," Rafayel said, and there was something wounded in his voice. "You said you wouldn't disappear. You said we'd be honest. But you're hiding when you're hurt?"
"I didn't want you to worry," Nana admitted. "You already worry so much—"
"Of course I worry!" Rafayel's voice rose slightly, then he caught himself, lowering it. "Nana. You could have died. Multiple times. And I wouldn't have known because you don't tell me when you're hurt."
Before she could respond, he dropped to his knees.
Right there. On the rooftop. In front of everyone.
"Rafayel!" Nana hissed, mortified. "What are you—"
"Let me see," Rafayel said, his hands hovering near her knee. "Please."
Nana glanced around—people were starting to notice, to whisper, to point—but Rafayel didn't seem to care. His entire focus was on her injury, on the bruise that was, admittedly, worse than she'd made it sound.
His fingers were gentle as they traced the edges of the bruise, and Nana felt a tingle of magic—healing magic, warm and soothing, taking away the pain she'd been ignoring for days.
"You can't do this to me," Rafayel said quietly, looking up at her with those impossible eyes. "You can't hide injuries. Not small ones, not big ones. I need to know. I need to—" He stopped, struggling. "I need to know you're okay. Please. Promise me."
"I promise," Nana said, touching his hair. "I'm sorry. I won't hide injuries anymore."
"Good." Rafayel stood, and the healing magic faded, leaving her knee better than it had been in days. "Now let's—"
"Excuse me?" A voice interrupted. "Are you Rafayel? The artist?"
Rafayel's expression shifted—from concerned boyfriend to public figure in an instant. Professional. Polite. Distant.
"I am," he confirmed.
And suddenly they were surrounded.
It started with one person asking for an autograph.
Then another wanted a photo.
Then someone else had a painting they'd brought (who brings a painting to a restaurant?) and could he please sign it?
Within minutes, Rafayel was swamped. People pressing close, phones out, everyone talking at once. He handled it gracefully—smiling, signing, posing for photos, being the charming famous artist everyone expected.
And Nana found herself pushed to the edge. Forgotten.
She stood there, holding her flowers, watching as strangers got closer to him than she'd been all night. Watching as they touched his arm, his shoulder. Watching as one particularly bold fan asked—actually asked—if she could have a kiss on the cheek.
"For my birthday!" the woman said, batting her eyelashes.
Rafayel handled it professionally. "I appreciate the support, but I'm actually here on a date tonight—"
"Oh come on," the woman pressed. "Just one little kiss? It would make my whole year!"
"I really can't—" Rafayel started, trying to extract himself without being rude.
Nana felt something hot and ugly twist in her chest. Jealousy. Possessiveness. The bone-deep certainty that these people were taking something that was supposed to be *theirs*—hers and Rafayel's—and turning it into a public spectacle.
She turned away, walking back toward their table, trying to collect herself.
*He's handling it*, she told herself. *He's being professional. This is part of dating someone famous. You need to accept that.*
But it didn't stop the hurt. Didn't stop the feeling of being overlooked, forgotten, pushed aside while strangers got his attention.
Finally—after what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes—Rafayel extracted himself from the crowd. He found her sitting at their table, picking at her dessert, not looking at him.
"Nana," he said. "I'm sorry. That was—"
"It's fine," Nana said, voice too bright. "You're famous. It happens. I understand."
"You're upset."
"I'm not upset."
"You won't look at me."
"I'm looking at my dessert."
"Nana." Rafayel crouched beside her chair. "Talk to me. Please."
"It's stupid," Nana muttered.
"It's not stupid if it hurt you."
Nana finally looked at him. "I just—I felt forgotten. Like I was invisible while all those people got your attention. Got to touch you and talk to you and ask for kisses and I just—" She stopped, frustrated with herself. "I told you it was stupid."
"It's not stupid," Rafayel said firmly. "And you're right. I should have—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I should have introduced you. Should have made it clear you were with me. Should have cut it shorter. I'm sorry."
"You were just being nice to your fans," Nana said.
"And ignoring my girlfriend," Rafayel countered. "Which is unacceptable. You come first. Always. Even before my career, my fans, everything. You."
"Rafayel—"
"I mean it." He took her hands. "From now on, if fans approach, I introduce you. Make it clear we're together. And if anyone asks for a kiss?" He smiled slightly. "I'll tell them the only person who gets to kiss me is you."
Despite herself, Nana felt her lips twitch. "Really?"
"Really." Rafayel stood, pulling her up with him. "Come on. Let's go home. I want to spend the rest of the evening proving that you're the only one who matters."
The drive back to Nana's apartment was quiet. Not uncomfortable, just—heavy with unspoken things.
Nana sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, still pouting slightly even though she knew she was being petty. She could feel Rafayel glancing at her every few seconds, could practically hear him trying to figure out how to make this better.
"You know," he said finally, "you could just kiss me. Whenever you want. Wherever you want. In front of anyone. To prove ownership."
Nana's head whipped toward him. "What?"
"If you're worried about fans," Rafayel continued, a smile playing at his lips, "just kiss me in front of them. Mark your territory. I'm extremely kissable and extremely yours. Use that to your advantage."
"Rafayel!" Nana felt her face flame.
"I'm serious!" He was grinning now. "Next time we're in public and you feel jealous? Just grab me and kiss me. I promise I won't object. Might even kiss you back."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're adorable when you're possessive," Rafayel countered. "It's new. I like it. Do it more."
"I'm not possessive—"
"You absolutely are. And I love it. Love that you want me to be only yours. Because I am. Only yours. Have been for three hundred years. Will be for three hundred more."
Nana looked away, trying to hide her smile. "You're too much."
"And you love it," Rafayel said confidently.
They pulled up to Nana's apartment building—a modest complex where several Hunter association members lived. Rafayel parked at the gate, turning off the engine.
"I'll walk you to your door," he said.
"It's fine, I can—"
"I'm walking you to your door," Rafayel repeated firmly. "It's what boyfriends do."
He got out, circled around to open her door (because of course he did), and offered his hand. They walked slowly toward the building entrance, neither wanting the night to end.
At the gate, Nana turned to face him. "Thank you for tonight. Despite the—the fans and everything. It was nice."
"It was supposed to be perfect," Rafayel said, frustrated. "I had it all planned. Dinner, fireworks, just us. And then—"
"It was still good," Nana interrupted. "Really. I'm just being—"
"You're not being anything," Rafayel said. "You're allowed to feel how you feel. And if you felt overlooked, that's my fault. Let me make it better."
"How?"
Instead of answering, Rafayel stepped closer. His hands went to her waist, and before Nana could process what was happening, he lifted her.
"Rafayel!" she squeaked.
He set her down on the hood of his car—warm from the engine, perfect height—and stepped between her legs. Suddenly they were eye-level. Suddenly she couldn't look anywhere but at him.
"What are you—" she started.
"Proving a point," Rafayel said, and kissed her.
Not gentle. Not careful. Not the sweet kisses they'd shared before.
This was claiming. Possessive. A kiss that said *mine* and *yours* and *ours*. His hands cupped her face, his body pressed close, and Nana forgot how to think.
She forgot they were in public.
Forgot they were at her apartment gate where anyone could see.
Forgot everything except the way Rafayel kissed her like she was oxygen and he'd been drowning.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"There," Rafayel said, voice rough. "Now everyone knows. Anyone watching right now knows exactly who I belong to. Who you belong to. No confusion. No question."
"Rafayel," Nana managed, her brain still not functioning properly. "We're—people might see—"
"Good," Rafayel said. "Let them see. Let the whole world see. I'm not hiding you. Not anymore. Not ever."
He pressed one more kiss to her forehead, softer this time. "Come to the studio tomorrow? We'll collect shells. Paint. I'll teach you more about Lemurian magic. Whatever you want."
"Okay," Nana whispered.
"Okay." Rafayel helped her down from the car, steadied her when her legs were unsteady. "Sleep well. Dream of me."
"Conceited," Nana accused, but she was smiling.
"Confident," Rafayel corrected, and with one last look that promised more kisses later, he got in his car and drove away.
Nana stood there, touching her lips, trying to remember how to be a functional human being.
"Holy shit."
The voice made her jump.
She turned to find two people standing near the building entrance, frozen in place, staring at her with identical expressions of shock.
Tara and Nero. Her friends. Her teammates. Fellow Hunters who lived in the same complex.
Who had apparently just watched that entire display.
"I—" Nana started.
"Was that RAFAYEL?!" Tara shrieked. "The ARTIST?!"
"Did he just—" Nero gestured vaguely. "Did you just—ON HIS CAR?!"
"I can explain—" Nana tried.
"You're DATING him?!" Tara grabbed her shoulders. "How long?! Why didn't you tell us?! What the HELL, Nana?!"
"How did this happen?!" Nero demanded. "When?! Where?! I need details! All the details!"
Nana's face was burning. "Can we—can we not do this in the parking lot—"
"Oh we're doing this EVERYWHERE," Tara said, dragging her toward the building. "You're going to tell us everything. Starting from the beginning. And I mean EVERYTHING. Do not leave out a single detail."
"I have wine in my apartment," Nero added. "We're going to need wine for this conversation."
"Guys—" Nana protested weakly.
But they were already pulling her inside, already talking over each other, already demanding explanations for why their friend was apparently dating one of the most famous artists in the country and hadn't told them.
Nana glanced back at the gate one more time, where Rafayel's car had been parked. Where he'd kissed her in front of everyone. Where he'd made it clear—unmistakably, undeniably clear—that they belonged to each other.
She smiled.
Worth it.
Even if she was about to be interrogated by her well-meaning but nosy friends for the next three hours.
Completely worth it.
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🐚🐚🐚
Meanwhile....
From a rooftop across the street, hidden in shadows, Theo watched.
He'd followed them from the restaurant. Had seen the dinner, the fireworks, the intimate moments. Had felt his hatred grow with each tender look, each touch, each kiss.
And now this.
The Sea God, publicly claiming his human bride. Making a spectacle of their love. Broadcasting to the world that he'd moved on, that he was happy, that three hundred years of loss meant nothing because he had her back.
Theo's claws dug into the concrete, leaving gouges.
*Enough*, he decided. *I've waited long enough. Watched long enough. Planned long enough.*
*Time to act.*
He pulled out the corrupted crystal, feeling its wrong magic pulse in his hand. There were more of these. Dozens of them. Scattered throughout the ocean, infecting Wanderers, making them stronger, sending them to the surface with one purpose:
Find the Sea God's bride.
Kill her.
Make him suffer the way Theo had suffered. The way all of Lemuria had suffered.
"Enjoy your happiness while you can," Theo murmured, watching as Nana's friends dragged her inside. "Because I'm going to take it from you. And this time—" His smile was terrible. "—this time, there will be no reincarnation. No second chances. No coming back."
"This time, when she dies, she stays dead."
He vanished into the darkness, leaving only scratches on the concrete and malice in the air.
The storm was coming.
And neither Rafayel nor Nana had any idea.
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🐚🐚🐚
To be continued __