Thorne shook her head slowly. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you vampires out.”
“You think his politeness was a move?”
“I actually don’t know what I’m thinking. Are you sure he didn’t threaten you at all? Maybe you just missed it.”
“Believe me, I’m used to veiled threats and vampiric games. He did nothing untoward.”
“Huh.” She stared at me a few more minutes, her head tilted. After a few moments, she turned back to her task at hand and lifted an old, rust-streaked mirror off the wall and set it upright against the wall. Her reflection stared back at her—dirt-smudged and fuzzy.
“You’re worried,” I stated.
“I am,” she admitted without hesitation. “Lucien always has a plan. Usually, I can suss it out. But what you’re describing, I’ve never heard of before. Which concerns me. What made him choose civility this time? He’s never civil. Especially not with newcomers who are encroaching his territory.”
She glanced at me again, this time with something closer to intrigue than analysis. “You either confused him or interested him. And honestly, I don’t know which is more dangerous.”
“That’s comforting.”
We fell back into the rhythm of scrubbing. Occasionally, we’d hear a creak, groan, or whispered obscenity from the bathroom, but overall, the spirits seemed marginally more cooperative now that I had white sage—and other tools—within striking distance.
But while cleaning, my mind kept returning to Lucien.
Not just to his cryptic calm or his suspicious civility, but to the way his presence filled the room without effort. He hadn’t tried to charm me. And somehow, that only made it worse. Because some part of me had noticed him.
And noticed hard.
When we finally stepped back to assess our work, the loft no longer resembled a crime scene. It had graduated to “haunted fixer-upper with potential.” We’d stripped the space of anything upholstered in mold, tossed out every cursed chair, table, and armoire. The only furniture I’d kept was the mattress, mirror, and a small table desk. Then we’d scrubbed every inch of floor, wall, and ceiling until the air smelled more like citrus cleanser than slow decay. We’d dusted the fixtures—some of them even gleamed—and we’d peeled back as much wallpaper as our patience (and fingernails) would allow without tools.
To my surprise, the loft was starting to look livable. Not exactly glamorous, not yet, but no longer actively hostile to the idea of occupancy.
Certainly not the ten-thousand-square-foot estate I once called home—no rose gardens, marble columns, or koi ponds here—but it had walls, a roof, and for now, a mattress that no longer screamed when I lay on it.
Progress.
Of course, there was still the matter of permits. And inspections. And the town council. And navigating supernatural politics with the most powerful vampire in the city watching my every move.
But for a single, fleeting moment, it didn’t feel impossible.
I glanced at Thorne, who was currently wrestling an ancient floorboard into submission, and a flicker of hope rose in my chest.
It was a foolish thing. Naïve, even. Especially when Lucien was lurking in the wings with unknown intentions. Still, if reopening this bar was going to be a war, then at least I wouldn’t be waging it alone.
And for now?
That was enough.
Chapter
Seven
LUCIEN
I hadn’t stepped foot outside the Crimson Veil since last night—since meeting Miss Laurent.
After our little tête-à-tête, I’d returned here, to my domain, where I could brood in peace.
And I had brooded. Thoroughly.
Not that anyone had noticed. I’d handled the nightly run of operations with my usual precision—signed off deliveries, adjusted bookings, corrected the bar inventory after someone miscounted our highest-tier bloodwine. I’d even spent an hour on the upper terrace, watching the lounge unfold like theater, issuing instructions with the flick of a hand and the barest lift of a brow.
