Ch. 75 – A Djinn’s Word

The memory hit Rhys with the brutal clarity of a physical blow. He suddenly remembered the frantic, reckless lie he had spun that afternoon when Durin had almost caught him and Rhea together.

Cornered, with the sweet dwarf’s innocent eyes staring at him, Rhys had claimed he was using a specialized, highly classified pressure-point and acupuncture technique he had learned during his black-ops hero days—a rare physical therapy designed to clear locked biological pathways and "heal" Rhea's strange, chronic fatigue.

Rhys quickly pulled a practiced, placating smile onto his face, stepping forward to smooth down the air between them.

"Durin, my man, take a breath," Rhys reasoned smoothly, his hands raised in a gentle, non-threatening gesture. "Look, what I did back then... it was meant as a minor, quick fix to align her system. It’s not something she needs every single week." Especially because she wasn't actually sick in the first place, Rhys added silently, a dark twist of guilt knotting in his stomach. "I’m in the middle of prepping for a massive launch right now, but I promise you, I know exactly what she needs."

Durin’s thick brow furrowed deeper, clearly unimpressed that Rhys wasn't immediately dropping everything to run down the block and lay hands on his wife.

This isn't even cool, Rhys lamented internally, his chest tightening with sheer absurdity. I shouldn't have to stand on my own porch, lying to and arguing with a good man just to convince him NOT to let me walk over to his house and sleep with his wife!

But spinning falsehoods was becoming Rhys's primary language. His mind, operating at the terrifying speed of a seasoned liar, pivoted without a single hitch.

"Listen," Rhys continued, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial, reassuring register. "Her body doesn't need physical therapy right now—it needs internal balance. I actually have the exact ingredients for a rare, highly potent elemental tea. It does the exact same thing as the pressure-point treatment, but it works through her bloodstream over a few days."

Durin’s tense shoulders visibly relaxed. The harsh anger in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by the desperate, hopeful affection of a devoted husband. A warm, naive smile broke through his thick beard. "A tea? Really? Do you... do you have it here? How do I brew it?"

"I’ll grab it right now. Sit tight, I’ll be right back," Rhys said, offering a firm nod as he turned and walked toward the kitchen at the back of the house.

The second he crossed the threshold out of Durin’s line of sight, Rhys gripped the edge of the granite counter, staring at his reflection in the microwave door in absolute horror.

Why the HELL did I just do that?! Rhys screamed at himself mentally.

“You know why you did that,” a distant, low voice echoed from the shadowed, quiet corners of his mind.

Rhys braced himself for the sarcastic, mocking commentary of the little devil that usually perched on his shoulder, but to his surprise, the shoulder-demon was dead silent. It was sitting this one out, completely unbothered, as if realizing Rhys’s natural self-destructive momentum was doing its job for it today.

Suppressing a groan, Rhys opened the top pantry cabinet and reached for a tin of dark, aromatic tea leaves. It was a "rare," ridiculously expensive herbal blend he had bought for Lira months ago. Lira had hated the earthy, sharp taste, but the concentrated botanical properties had done wonders for her whenever she fell ill.

Rhys walked back to the front door, slipping his cool, composed mask back into place. He handed the dark tin to Durin and carefully explained the brewing process, detailing water temperatures and steeping times with authoritative precision.

Durin beamed with profound gratitude, clutching the tin to his chest like a holy relic. "Thank you, Rhys! Seriously, you're a lifesaver!" he said, turning around and rushing down the driveway in ignorant bliss, eager to care for his wife.

Rhys stood on the porch, watching the stout man jog down the street. He didn't feel a shred of triumph. He felt hollow, dirty, and utterly exhausted.

He glanced down at his wristwatch. Half an hour had vanished into thin air. He had barely an hour left before Shula was scheduled to pull into his driveway and drag him into her next storm.

The thought of being swept into her superheated, predatory orbit again sent a cold shudder straight through his frame. He leaned his head back against the doorframe, forcing himself to think, tracing his memory back through the years to when he first met Shula—and how she had ended up in a relationship with Darius in the first place.

Back in their prime hero days, it had actually been Rhys who helped Darius win her over.

As an ancient Djinn-descended Ifrit, Shula possessed a deep, primal attraction to rare, powerful, and historically significant artifacts. Recognizing this, Rhys had spent weeks helping a tongue-tied Darius track down a legendary, magically imbued relic to present to her as a courtship token. Rhys had masterminded the entire gesture, quietly stepping into the shadows afterward and never taking a single shred of credit for pairing them up.

But there was one fundamental rule Rhys had learned about Djinn biology during those research days: A Djinn’s word is an absolute, binding contract.

That was the exact reason why Shula had been able to effortlessly dismantle every single boundary Lira laid down the night before. Lira had prohibited kissing, lustful displays, and lingering after he finished—so Shula had weaponized oral prep, licked his body instead of kissing his lips, and technicality-ed her way into multiple rounds because Lira had never specified how many times he was allowed to finish.

Rhys’s eyes opened wide. A sudden, sharp clarity cut straight through his panic.

He had less than an hour, and that was just enough time.

“You know what you have to do,” the dark, heavy voice in his mind murmured, stepping closer from the shadows of his subconscious.

Rhys went straight to work, his mind locking into tactical planning. The momentum from his earlier victory—convincing Durin and keeping him away from the house—seemed to ignite something deep inside his chest. The dormant, damaged kinetic cells beneath his ribs flared with a sudden, surging warmth, cheering him on, offering him a reservoir of raw power he hadn't felt in months.

He knew exactly how to handle a Djinn. He knew how to twist intent, enforce exact verbiage, and turn her own rules against her.

By the time a sleek, pearl-white luxury vehicle glided silently into his driveway, Rhys stood up firm. He wasn't the panicking, helpless victim from the night before. He was completely beside himself—unyielding, focused, and resolved to never let another person trample over his home or his dignity again.

He walked down the steps and opened the front door just as Shula approached the porch.

She was breathtaking. She wore a skin-tight, amber-gold dress that clung to her sculpted Ifrit curves like a second skin, her bronze skin practically glowing under the afternoon sun.

Rhys greeted her with a cool, immaculately collected smile, his composure an unshakeable wall. Yet, deep beneath his calm exterior, a dark, primal urge to feel her impossible warmth again rippled through his veins. The heavy lump of coal that had settled in his stomach hours ago was no longer cold—it was burning white-hot.

Better get ready, Shula, Rhys thought darkly, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly.

Shula looked up at him with a deeply affectionate, possessive gaze. "Are you ready to go, my sweet donor?" she purred.

"I'm ready," Rhys replied, his voice a smooth, low baritone.

Without warning, Shula closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his waist in a deep, tight embrace. She tilted her head, dragging her warm, wet tongue up the sensitive column of his neck to the shell of his ear, her heated breath sending an intense shockwave straight down his spine.

She pulled back slowly, her golden eyes flashing with a desperate, suppressed hunger. She looked as if she were exercising every ounce of her superhuman self-control to hold herself back right there on his front lawn. Smiling seductively, she walked him over to the passenger side of the vehicle and opened the door for him.

The vehicle was an exquisite piece of ancient Djinn engineering—an autonomous, floating luxury transport enchanted to glide through the air like a legendary magic carpet, completely shielded from mundane eyes.

Rhys stepped into the plush leather interior and sat down, his heart hammering a steady, thunderous rhythm against his ribs. He steeled his nerves, locking his jaw as the door sealed shut.

Shula thought she was bringing a helpless, obedient prize to her lair. She had no idea that today, Rhys had zero intention of letting her have her way.