“He’s… nice,” she says after a beat, staring into her mug. “Like, stupid nice. It’s confusing.”
“Nice is good.”
“Yeah, but nice gets complicated when your cousin’s the sheriff who hates everyone you flirt with.”
I smile faintly. “You’ve always liked trouble.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “So have you.”
The rain softens outside, turning to a steady rhythm against the roof. The adrenaline’s finally ebbing, replaced by exhaustion. I let my head fall back against the cushion, watching the flicker of candlelight play across the ceiling.
Amara sighs, stretching her legs out and nudging my foot with hers. “I think the wards will hold tonight.”
“They will,” I say quietly.
“You sure?”
I nod. “We’re safe here.”
Thistle yawns in agreement, tail twitching.
Amara hums, the sound low and tired. “Still… what Damon said. The way he looked at the ridge. You think the Rift’s actually waking up again?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, setting my mug down. “But whatever it is… we’ll handle it.”
“Like always.”
“Like always.”
The lights flicker once, briefly, and my skin tingles all over again. But then it passes. The hum dulls. The storm moves on.
By the time Amara falls asleep against my shoulder, the tea’s gone cold, and I can finally breathe without feeling like the air might bite back.
Rune of Binding:
Etch into wood. Wards defend against storms.
The view from the penthouse stretches over the lake—black glass and city light—an endless pulse of money and movement. I like it that way. Clean lines. Control. Chicago looks better from above.
Kayla leans across the table, the stem of her wine glass balanced between her fingers, smiling at me like I’m the answer to a question she hasn’t decided to ask yet. She’s in red tonight, and her perfume’s that expensive vanilla-amber one she knows I notice. Dinner’s half done: seared lamb, roasted figs, and too much wine.
“You’re thinking about work again,” she says, a pout curling her lips.
“I’m thinking about how fast I can get you out of that goddamn dress,” I counter.
Her laugh is soft, easy. “You’re not convincing anyone when you check your watch every five minutes.”
She’s right. I do it anyway. The Patek’s new—silver face, black leather strap, etched with the smallest protective rune on the inside.
I don’t leave home without wards stitched into something. Chicago hums with power—old lines, old secrets—and I trust none of it.
She props her chin in her hand. “So what is it this time? Council business? Or are you pretending to be mysterious because you think it’s sexy?”
I smirk. “Can’t it be both?”
She rolls her eyes but leans in when I reach for her. Her lips taste like wine and mint, the kiss slow until my phone ruins it, buzzing against the table like an impatient wasp. The screen lights up:Helena.
Kayla groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you ever turn that thing off?”
