“Have your checkbook ready.”
Of course. I rolled my eyes, then disconnected the call and slid my phone back into my pocket.
“Selene Ravenspell is on her way,” I announced, raising my voice just slightly—enough for the toilet to hear what I had to say. “She’ll be here within the hour to exorcise whatever malevolent filth is festering in there.”
That got a reaction. A bold one, too.
The bathroom door flew open so violently, it bounced off the wall and rebounded shut again. It repeated the process—open, slam, open, slam—faster and faster, until the hinges practically squealed in protest and the knob spun like it might rattle right off the door.
Then came the water.
A sharp, wet sploosh burst up from beneath the toilet lid, and a stream of foul-smelling liquid geysered across the floor in a wide arc. It soaked the rotted bathmat, pooled under the door, and shot out into the loft.
Isadora yelped and jumped back.
I, however, did not move.
I simply adjusted my cuffs, then stared at the door.
“That’s quite enough,” I said coolly, stepping forward. “Unless you’d prefer I line the entire toilet with iron-blessed salt and watch you gag on it for the next decade.”
The door gave a final twitch, then the entire bathroom went silent.
I turned to Isadora with a triumphant grin. “Problem solved.”
She blinked at me. Then glanced at the water-soaked bathmat. “Lucien, the whole bathroom is flooded.”
“Yes,” I said mildly. “Well, one problem solved.”
Isadora stared at me. Just stared. Like she couldn’t quite process what had just happened. I supposed it wasn’t every day someone witnessed another person threatening a toilet demon and winning.
Then, suddenly, she started laughing.
It was a full, deep-throated, damn-near-manic laugh. She clutched her sides as she doubled over, one hand covering her stomach while the other covered her mouth, as though that might stop the sound from escaping.
It didn’t. If anything, it made things worse. She was laughing so hard, her shoulders shook, and tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped between breaths. “I just—oh gods, what even is my life right now? Demonically possessed toilets? A ghost that lives in a chandelier? A stalker who broke into my cheap-ass loft that looks like it’s about to fall apart at any second? You threatening to salt my plumbing like some Catholic priest…”
She snorted—actually snorted—and then, without warning, she surged forward, grabbed my lapels, and yanked me down for a kiss.
My eyes widened as I fumbled to catch her waist. My mind had completely stalled, utterly disarmed by her. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had initiated any form of intimacy with me. I was always the pursuer, never pursued. So, I wasn’t accustomed—or prepared—for this.
The realization lit a fire within me, and I slid one hand up to her jaw, cupping her face. Her lips parted beneath mine, and I sank into her like a man starved.
Her fingers tightened on my lapel, dragging me down, like she couldn’t get close enough. There was no hesitation in her—only heat and determination. She kissed me like I belonged to her. Like she was claiming me.
And I let her.
No one had ever reached for me like that. Not without calculation or masquerading it as affection. But Isadora wasn’t pretending. There was no manipulation in her touch. No agenda. Just desire.
I kissed her back with everything I had. Not because I was trying to win or prove something, but because I didn’t know how else to react. I gave her all of me—every sharp edge, every hollow, every piece of myself I’d kept hidden from society for so many years.
Because at that moment, I understood something with startling clarity.
This wasn’t just desire. It was the way I felt when I was with her. Needed. Appreciated.
I also knew, with startling clarity, that I would give her anything and everything she asked for. For as long as she wanted. Because even the thought of walking away felt like a kind of death I knew I wouldn’t survive.
