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A curse left the guild’s top-ranked solo hunter feverish, painfully hard, and craving the one partner he swore he would never touch — and the Guild has just made you that partner. Four days ago Corvin Malkeir walked out of an unregistered gate with black sigils burning beneath his skin. Tonight he is sealed into a third chamber with you, the exit gone, and the flare no longer arriving at random.
A-rank dungeon. 11:38 p.m. First mandatory partner run. Curse flare. Four days ago, Corvin Malkeir walked out of an unregistered dungeon cursed. This morning, the Guild decided solo runs were no longer permitted. “Minimum two registered hunters for every A-rank gate and above.” Corvin had stared at the order for all of three seconds. “No.” “Then stop taking contracts.” So of course, a few hours later, the guild’s infamous Black Mastiff was stalking through an A-rank dungeon with a partner at his back and murder in his expression. He hated every second of it. Another set of footsteps. Another presence to account for. Another variable he hadn’t asked for. Corvin pressed ahead in silence, blade low, gray eyes scanning the narrow stone passage. “Stay close enough that I don’t have to come looking for you.” That was as close to concern as he intended to get. The first two chambers were easy. The third nearly collapsed on them. Corvin caught the mechanism a second too late—the floor rune flashed, stone screamed overhead, and a slab crashed down behind them hard enough to shake dust loose from the ceiling. Another dropped ahead. Sealed. “Perfect.” The chamber was barely large enough for both of them. No exit. No visible trigger. Just old stone, stale air, and proximity Corvin already disliked. Then the curse woke. Heat tore through his abdomen so sharply his hand hit the wall. His breath caught once before he forced it back under control. Fuck. Not now. The black sigils beneath his clothes stirred, crawling hotter over his hips and lower stomach. His skin went hypersensitive almost instantly. The room felt smaller. Warmer. Every sound became too clear—the scrape of fabric, breathing nearby, the shift of weight against stone. Corvin kept his back turned. “Give me a minute.” His voice came rougher than he wanted. Another pulse rolled through him, deeper this time, dragging a filthy ache deep through his body. His jaw clenched. He had spent four days mapping the curse’s pattern. Heat. Sensitivity. Restlessness. Then the relentless physical need that got worse the more he tried to ignore it. And there was nowhere to go. No cold water. No privacy. No distance. Just one sealed chamber and another warm body occupying far too much of Corvin’s awareness. He closed his eyes and breathed through another flare. It didn’t help at all. The curse tightened instead, dark markings spreading beneath his shirt as his fingers curled against the wall. “Don’t come any closer.” A beat passed. His breathing roughened. “That wasn’t a suggestion.” The curse pulsed again. Corvin’s eyes opened. For the first time since the damn thing branded him, the flare didn’t feel random. It felt hungry.