That stopped me. Just for a breath.
Lucien’s eyes burned now—not with fury, but focus. “I don’t break into people’s homes. I don’t slash their clothing or shatter keepsakes like some jealous child looking to prove a point.”
I stared at him, trying to gauge whether this was some elaborate deflection or psychological misdirection. But there was no smugness in his voice. And that was the moment a cold weight settled in my chest.
“Wait,” I said slowly. “You’re serious.”
Lucien held my gaze as he said, “I am many things, Isadora. But petty is not one of them.”
His denial should have made me bristle. But instead, I found myself thinking back to every question he’d asked, every detail he’d picked apart.
He hadn’t been trying to deny it.
He’d been trying to understand it.
I replayed his fixation on what they had and hadn’t touched. His clipped tone, the way he’d asked about scent markers, how they’d entered, what they’d done. He was trying to recreate the crime in his mind.
Because this wasn’t about the bar.
It had never been about the bar.
My breath caught.
The intruder had walked through the bar, untouched. The ghosts had tried to stop them, had flung what they could, but the intruder hadn’t cared. They’d gone upstairs. Into my space. And destroyed my personal possessions.
All the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end. The break in hadn’t been random. The intruder hadn’t destroyed anything downstairs. That damage had come from the ghosts in an attempt to defend the place.
No. The intruder had crept up the stairs into my living space. They’d gone after me.
And I had no idea why.
Chapter
Thirteen
LUCIEN
Isadora didn’t move, but everything about her changed. Her scent soured into fear, her shoulders stiffened, and her breaths grew shallow. She was frightened—and I hated it.
Normally, I would revel in an adversary feeling fear. It was part of the game. But not with Isadora. I never wanted anything to frighten her, not after everything she’d been through. She deserved a safe space. Someone to protect her.
The thought of an intruder breaking into her home and destroying what little security she’d built for herself filled me with such rage I could barely see straight. Whoever had done this had combed through her personal belongings like a damn vulture, determined to hit her where it hurt.
I could kill whoever did this.
No.
I would kill whoever did this.
Her gaze flicked to mine and I watched as she collected herself. She didn’t need to put on a brave face with me, but she didn’t know that, thanks to my own manipulations and games. I, myself, hadn’t made her feel welcome or safe. That bar was her home. And in the span of two days, two people had invaded it, myself included.
I stopped and took a moment to assess my intentions here. Because where she stank of fear, I stunk of fury. And I knew she could smell it. My own emotions rode too close to the surface. I liked to think I was more political than violent, but this scenario awakened instincts in me I’d never experienced before. I wanted to kill anyone who harmed her.
It was strange to feel so strongly for someone I had just met. I truly had no idea why she mattered so much to me and so quickly, but she did. In the few days since we’d met, she’d burrowed into my head, and I couldn’t get her out.
Breathe, I told myself. Calm down. She didn’t need to deal with a raging male right now. She needed stability and common sense.
“You said you didn’t tell anyone you and Thorne would be spending the day in town today,” I said, my voice quiet but sharp.
