The way Thorne had described him, I’d expected theatrics and thinly veiled threats. A sociopathic vampire wearing silk gloves.
Instead, he’d given me what I suspected was his version of politeness. A charming smile, a civil tone, and gentle eyes. He hadn’t blustered or growled or seemed even the slightest bit offended by my presence. He’d simply watched me and listened to my tirade, as though drinking me in.
And his voice. Phew. The way his lips formed his words, how he savored every syllable he spoke… Yes, it’d distracted me. Briefly.
But I wasn’t some simpering socialite easily undone by good tailoring, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a very square, very manly jawline.
Lucien was playing a game. Moves and countermoves, Thorne had said. I had to assume his approach last night had been a tactic. One he’d specifically chosen to throw me off balance.
Clearly, he was planning something. Some elaborate long-con that ended with me bankrupt and kicked out of town.
I scrubbed harder, attacking the counter like it had insulted my lineage.
He was watching me. That much was obvious. But for what purpose?
To predict my failure—or to ensure it?
With a long sigh, I gave up on the stain and moved to the far corner of the bar, where the next monstrosity awaited. At first glance, it looked like a table had fused with the wall through a combination of rot and grime. Either way, it needed to go—a one-way ticket straight to the dump. If only it would move.
I gave it a tug.
It groaned in protest.
So did I.
“Oh, don’t start,” I muttered, bracing one booted foot against the baseboard. “You’ve had years to rot in peace. It’s time for you to say goodbye.”
I pulled harder, and the table groaned again, louder this time, before a gust of cold air slithered past my cheek like a warning.
I narrowed my eyes. “Is that the best you’ve got? A spooky breeze? Please. I’ve faced investors with sharper teeth.”
I yanked harder.
The entire structure shuddered—and then a nearby drawer shot open and spat a cascade of old receipts and what might’ve been a cursed wine list directly at my face.
I staggered back, choking on dust. “Really? Paper? That’s your weapon of choice?”
Somewhere above me, Bernard creaked ominously, his crystals jangling with what I swore was smugness.
“I’m trying to improve your living conditions,” I growled. “If you keep this up, you’ll force me to take more drastic measures.”
A stool flew across the room and struck the wall next to me.
I slowly turned and glared at the room. “That was mean.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Disdainful.
“Fine. I see how it is. Sabotage the heiress. Very unoriginal.”
I set the stool upright—maybe with a bit more force than necessary—then grabbed my rag and turned back to the bar. The wooden shelves were next, so I started scrubbing, tackling one stubborn smear at a time. Every few seconds, one of the ghosts threw a temper tantrum, but I refused to acknowledge any of it.
“You can haunt me all you like,” I said sweetly, “but you’ll be doing it in a bar with working plumbing and lights by next month.”
The mirror behind the counter suddenly clouded over with a frosty haze.
I glared at it. “Petty.”
Eventually, the frost receded. I resumed scrubbing until the front door suddenly creaked open.
