“I knocked over the easel.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re going to have to replace that.”
“I’ll order two.”
“Good. Because I’m going to be here a lot.”
He kissed her forehead. Her temple. The bridge of her nose. Small, precise kisses that mapped her features with the same attention he gave to difficult compositions. She closed her eyes and let him.
“You finished it.” Barely above a whisper.
“We finished it.”
The weeksthat followed reshaped everything.
His sketchbooks lived on the studio shelf now. Visible. Accessible. Anyone walking through the third floor could see them—the CEO’s private drawings, the proof of a creative life he’d spent years concealing. The first time Brenn caught him sketching during an elder meeting—quick, absent lines in the margin of a financial report—the old wolf’s jaw worked. No words came. Whether it was acceptance or exhaustion, Zeir didn’t care. The pencil stayed in his hand.
Her loft redesigned itself around the new reality. Nyx’s security system—cameras, motion sensors, reinforced locks—integrated seamlessly into the converted warehouse bones. The living side survived the break-in intact. The working side transformed. Two drafting tables now, angled toward each other. A shared supply wall: twice the ink, twice the paper, her watercolor palettes next to his charcoal sets. The organized chaos of her process merging with the sharp architecture of his.
The plants survived. Moriarty had conquered an additional six inches of windowsill during the chaos and showed no signs of retreating. Hela stood rigid and unbothered. Iago had droppedthree fronds in what Lumi described as a “sympathy molt” and then resumed its campaign of spiteful survival.
New addition: a compact, dark-green succulent wedged between Hela and Iago on the windowsill. She set it down one morning while Zeir was reading on the couch.
“This is Zeir.”
He looked up from the manuscript.
“You named a plant after me.”
“I name all my plants after characters I’m emotionally attached to. You should be flattered. Moriarty was first.”
“You’re comparing me to a fictional criminal mastermind.”
“You publish villain stories for a living. This should not surprise you.” She adjusted the succulent’s position. “Besides, it’s perfect. Prickly. Dark. Secretly soft.”
He regarded the plant. Compact and sharp-edged and stubbornly alive.
“It’s accurate.”
“I know.” She kissed his cheek. Smelled like linseed oil and the coffee she’d been nursing since dawn. “I’m very good at casting.”
Keanu’s acceptancecame on a Sunday.
They were at the brownstone—dinner with the Axan family, the second since the engagement. Revka’s roasted chicken. Soren’s Burgundy. Kael’s running commentary on everything from Lumi’s latest cover art to Zeir’s unprecedented willingness to occupy a room with an expression other than vaguely homicidal.
Lumi sat beside Zeir at the big kitchen table, her chair pulled close enough that their knees touched under the wood. His palmrested on her thigh—casual, warm, the easy contact of a man who no longer calculated the cost of proximity.
She’d texted Keanu the photo of the ring. His response had been a two words:Call me.
She’d called. He’d been quiet for twelve seconds—she’d counted—and then said, “I’ll meet him.”
Now Keanu stood in the Axan brownstone kitchen, glass untouched, watching the chaos of a wolf-shifter family dinner like he was building a case. He’d worn a blazer. To a family dinner. Lumi loved him for it.
Zeir rose when Keanu entered. Crossed the room. Extended his hand. The two men were nearly the same height—Zeir had an inch, Keanu had the suit. The handshake lasted three seconds longer than standard.
“Keanu.” Zeir’s voice carried the respect he reserved for people who’d proved themselves before being asked. “Thank you for coming.”
