Not yet. But she would.
CHAPTER 28
A Garden Between Worlds
An hour later, Arden climbed the steps of Gideon’s brownstone, the late chill slicing across her skin like a warning she didn’t need. The place wasn’t grand. No sprawling estate, no gleaming monument to the Blackwell name. It washim. Grounded. Intentionally quiet.
Before she could knock, the door opened.
And then, he was there.
Dark jeans. A sweater that didn’t try to make a statement. No designer flash, no sharp tailoring—comfort. A quiet ruggedness. Understated, like he hadn’t dressed to impress, but was disarmingly effective. He looked like the man from the club, but… stripped of the armor.
It threw her for a second.
“I—” she began, but the word barely made it out.
Gideon didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.
One step closed the space between them. His hand settled low on her back, the contact gentle but grounding. Even through the cotton of her shirt, the warmth of him sank deep. Assured. And then his mouth found hers. Not tentative. Not soft.
Firm. Focused. Certain.
The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already knew the answer. One that stirred low and deep, tightened her breath, scattered every thought.
He pulled back slowly, but the look he gave her lingered, heavy and unreadable.
“Hi,” he said, rough-edged, with that low, wreck-your-sanity voice of his.
She blinked, thrown by how fast the air shifted around them. “I thought we were keeping things uncomplicated,” she said, her voice tighter than intended.
Gideon’s lips tugged at the corner. “Turns out I’m not great at uncomplicated.”
Then, he stepped back enough to give her space, letting her decide. Choice. Autonomy. Power.
She stood unmoving for a second then crossed the threshold.
The warmth that met her wasn’t from the radiator or the subtly muted thrum of music. It was in the atmosphere, the subtle lived-in quality of the space. Soap. Something herbal clinging to the air. She felt it in her bones.
Gideon didn’t say much. Just motioned to the staircase with a flick of his chin. “Upstairs.” No push. No pressure.
She followed anyway.
As they reached the second floor, everything shifted—closer, quieter. The scent of rosemary and cedar intensified, rich and familiar. It settled in her chest like memory, though she couldn’t place where or when.
Then the rooftop door opened, and she froze.
Overhead, the string lights swayed in the breeze, haloing the space in gentle gold. Ivy climbed the railing. Terra cotta pots flanked the walls, filled with unruly herbs and clustered blooms. A garden, wild and intimate, tucked into the bones of the city, like it had grown there in secret.
It wasn’t some polished rooftop spread from a lifestyle magazine. It wasn’t perfect. But it was… breathtaking.
A modest wooden table sat off-center, two places set with real plates and folded napkins. Beyond it, the skyline bled into a quiet, moving haze—light, motion, distance.
Her chest drew tight with something she didn’t have a name for.
“This… isn’t what I thought I’d find up here,” she said softly, her gaze moving across the rooftop. “I expected… shinier.”
Gideon stepped up beside her, hands in his pockets. “Something Blackwell?”
