At dinner, my lieutenants grumble about her curiosity.
I am not immune.
I find my jaw set tighter than I like, my gaze drawn to her wrists and ankles, to the places where the body can be restrained or broken.
But I also feel the cold thrill of recognition.
If she had been born a Crowley, I would have made her head of operations by now.
In the dark, she climbs to the top floor and stands at the window that overlooks the drive.
From behind, her silhouette is almost childlike, but I know better.
She holds her phone at hip level, thumb working in a silent rhythm.
I cannot see the screen, but I do not need to.
She is not contacting the outside—she is making notes for herself, or for the ghost of her father.
It occurs to me that this is a seduction, though not in anyway I have experienced before.
The first round belongs to her, and everyone in the house knows it.
When she leaves the window, I mark the time—22:40.
She will sleep with one eye open, if she sleeps at all.
I do the same, but not for the same reason.
5
RUAIRÍ
The next morning, I reset the locks, rotate the shifts, change the delivery schedule.
I do not doubt she will notice, and that is the point.
She is a catalyst, and I need to see what burns.
When I step into the hall, she is already there, hands clasped behind her back, waiting.
"Good morning," I say.
She smiles, not with her mouth but with her entire presence.
"Is it?"
I almost laugh.
"For now."
She holds my gaze, unblinking.
The standoff is brief, but it is the closest thing to intimacy I have allowed in years.
I wonder, as I walk away, if she knows the effect she has or if it is just the only thing she has left.
Either way, it works.
