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“Okay ...” I replied with a nod.
He held my gaze for a silent beat. It felt like there was an ocean of unspoken words we were both eager to say. Then he beamed a smile that set my entire freaking soul aflame and ushered us forward.
“Willa Callahan,” Lucifer said, “my uncle—Niall Gleason.”
Callahan.
I felt the sound of my true surname in my bones. I leaned into Lucifer, wanting him to feel my gratitude.
The resemblance between Lucifer and his uncle was undeniable. The twin gene had come from Nessa’s side of the family, and so had the emerald eyes and towering height.
Niall’s gaze drifted between us as a look of approval lit up his expression. He extended his hand in greeting, and I took it.
“Ye were just a wee lass the last time I saw you.”
I blinked and stood a little taller. “We’ve met before?”
“Aye—many times. Though I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Ye were awfully young and yer da didn’t keep banker hours.” His tone was warm and kind, his accent straight out of Dublin. “Ye were usually asleep in the backseat of the car or on the couch when I saw you.”
I found myself grinning and nodding along.
His recollections wrenched my heart wide open.
Willa Callahan still existed.
“Welcome home, lass.” He bent and dropped a peck on the top of my hand. As he lifted his head, his eyes found Lucifer. “And may God have mercy on the eejit’s soul who wishes ye harm from this day forth.”
Lucifer tightened his grip on my hip.
“Thank you, sir ...” I managed to reply.
Niall dipped his chin at Lucifer. “I’ll wait in the parlor, son.”
Seconds later, the study door closed. I stared in his direction long after he’d left the room, lost in the onslaught of emotions that had rushed in.
Lucifer’s palm rode my spine, grounding me. “Are you okay?”
“Aye.”
He kissed my temple. “Sit with me.”
He guided me to the leather armchair by the fireplace. A quick glance told me that every piece of evidence from the night I’d shot Raphael had been scrubbed away or destroyed. My gaze landed on the spot where Lucifer’s apple tree had lain dissected, and my hatred for Raphael resurfaced, replacing the sentimental mood from moments ago.
Once I was seated, Lucifer lowered himself to the ottoman across from me, boxing me in with his legs. The signs of sheer exhaustion were written across his handsome face. I instantly regretted my unspoken impatience with him earlier.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him. His knuckles were shredded, some wounds older than others and in different stages of healing. It had been too dark in my bedroom to notice at night. I pried his hands apart and lifted them for closer inspection. Had there been a few—or several—death matches that no one had told me about? Had he sparred with a brick wall?
“Lucifer . . .”
He trapped my fingers inside of his and brought our clasp to his lips. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, nymph.”
My eyes found his—the ones that sometimes perplexed but always fascinated me. “Where is Raphael?” I asked, driven by intuition to do so.
“He’s in the catacombs.”
I took a long, slow blink. “You locked Raphael in a dungeon?”
“It’s not a dungeon.”
