Lorcan is at the head of the table. He’s ditched the suit jacket, his charcoal button-down shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal those thick, ink-stained forearms. He’s actually listening to her, the dangerous, jagged lines of his face softening in a way that’s almost disorienting.
"The tail would be a nightmare, Maeve," Lorcan says, his voice low and vibrating with a rare, genuine amusement. "You’d spend your whole paycheck on drywall repairs."
"But we could put the lamps on the ceiling!" she argues, waving a forkful of broccoli with complete conviction. "Then he couldn't knock them over with his tail!"
"Ceiling lamps are impossible to clean," I chime in, reaching over to wipe a smear of sauce off her chin. Her skin is soft, warm, and utterly innocent, a stark contrast to the heavy, cold energy that usually saturates these walls. "And where would the dinosaur sleep? He’s way too big for your bed. He’d probably try to curl up on the sofa and crush your favorite pillows."
Maeve giggles, a bright, clear sound that cuts through the sterile atmosphere of the house. For a few minutes, the war is a million miles away. There is no Silas. There is no gunfight on the North Pass. There are just three people, a dinner that tastes surprisingly good, and the ridiculous, nonsensical challenges of keeping a predator in a Las Vegas penthouse.
Then, the butler walks in.
He doesn’t have the dessert trolley, no, he’s carrying a small, black velvet box, and he looks like he’s walking toward a firing squad. He moves with a rigid, panicked stiffness, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Lorcan’s left shoulder. He places the box in front of Lorcan, the velvet making a tiny, mutedthudagainst the wood.
"A delivery, sir," the butler says, his voice barely a whisper. "Left at the north gate. No courier."
The laughter in the room dies.
Lorcan doesn't look at the box at first. His hands, usually so steady they seem carved from granite, grip the stem of his wine glass so hard the crystal groans. He stares at the velvet surface as if it were a coiled snake.
Slowly, his hand reaches out. He opens the lid.
I’m watching him—I can't help it. I’m looking for the mask. I’m looking for the cold, unbothered, ruthless Don who handles death like a business transaction.
It isn't there.
For a heartbeat, his face collapses. He stares at the contents, his jaw unhinging, his chest seizing, and for one terrifying, silent second, I see the man beneath the armor. He looks devastated.
Then, he slams the box shut, and the mask slams back into place.
"Everyone out," he growls loudly. The staff doesn't wait to be told twice. They vanish like smoke. Maeve, sensing the sudden, violent shift in the air, starts to squirm, her lip wobbling. "Daddy? I didn't finish my peas! I want to stay!"
I reach out and take her hand. I keep my voice soft, calm, acting as a buffer. "It’s okay, Maeve. Why don't you come with me? I have that book you liked, the one about the star-nosed mole. We can read it in your room."
She looks at her Dads, but he’s staring at the black box with a terrifying, hollow focus, his breathing shallow and rapid. She nods, letting me lead her away, her small hand clutching mine with a little too much pressure.
Tucking Maeve into bed is a quiet, heavy affair. She’s sleepy, her eyelashes casting long shadows against her cheeks as she drifts off.
"Maeve?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. "What was your mommy like?"
She hums, her hand idly spinning an invisible ring on her finger. "She was pretty. She smelled like flowers. She had a ring with a big blue stone that I liked to spin, she also liked to talk about my uncle Silas a lot."
My breath hitches. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed.
Uncle Silas? The same man trying to kill me and her Dad?
"Was your uncle Silas there a lot?"
"Yeah," she says, her tone flat and matter-of-fact, the way children describe the weather. "He came for dinner. And then he was there the night Mommy didn't wake up. Daddy was sad, but he stopped being sad and started being mad. Forever."
She drifts off, her breathing turning rhythmic and soft.
I sit on the floor by her bed for a long time. The house feels enormous, a labyrinth built on top of a graveyard. I think about the jewelry box, the raw look in Lorcan’s eyes, and the sheer, brutal weight of a man who lives with his wife’s killer breathing down his neck every single day. I’m terrified of him, and I hate being held captive, but sitting here in the dark, I feel a sudden, sharp ache for him. He’s not just a criminal, he’s a grieving husband who has been trapped in a loop of vengeance for five years.
I walk to his study, the door is cracked open, casting a sliver of warm, dim light into the hallway. He’s standing by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, looking out at the glittering, lonely expanse of the desert. He doesn't turn around when I enter, but he doesn't tell me to get out, either.
I walk to the desk and lean against the edge. "She’s asleep."
"Good," he says. His voice is flat.
