I watch her move in, using the crowd as cover, her hand already reaching for the prize. This is it—the moment she commits to a crime that will justify whatever comes next.
The pouch slides free with practiced ease, and she's already turning away when I step into her path.
"Enjoying your evening?" I ask, my voice pitched low enough to avoid drawing attention from the surrounding crowd.
She looks up, and for a moment the world narrows to just her face framed by dark waves of hair. Gray-blue eyes with a ring of gold that catches the enchanted light, sharp cheekbones that speak of hunger and hardship, a mouth that's probably beautiful when it's not pressed thin with wariness.
But it's what I don't see that stops me cold.
No heat signature in her skin. No faint shimmer of magic around her temples. No wings, despite the bronze cuffs that had fooled my bouncer into thinking she belonged here.
Human.
She's human, standing in the middle of my club, surrounded by xaphan who would tear her apart if they knew what she was. The bronze cuffs are fake, clever mimicry designed to create the illusion of belonging in a world that considers her species nonexistent until convenient.
"I think you have something that doesn't belong to you," I continue, my voice steady despite the revelation burning through my thoughts.
Her hand tightens around the stolen money clip, but her expression doesn't change. No panic, no stammered excuses, no attempt to flee. Just calculation, like she's weighing options and finding them all wanting.
"I think you're mistaken," she replies, her voice carrying the kind of confidence that comes from years of talking her way out of impossible situations.
Calculated. Gutsy. Completely unafraid of a xaphan male who could kill her with a thought.
Stupid.
"No mistake." I step closer, using my size to crowd her against the bar. My wings spread slightly, creating a barrier of shadow and flame-tipped feathers that blocks her from the crowd's view. "You're going to return what you took, and then we're going to discuss the price of doing business in my establishment."
Something flickers across her features—surprise, maybe, or the first stirring of real fear. It's possible she doesn't realize who owns Vestige, doesn't understand that she's been stealing under the nose of someone with the power to make her disappear without a trace.
"Your establishment?" she repeats, her voice careful now.
"Every stone, every flame, every drop of blood spilled in these walls." I let heat bleed into my words, let the red tips of my wings glow brighter in the shadow we've created. "Mine. Which makes your little performance tonight a personal insult that requires personal attention."
Her chin lifts in defiance that would be admirable if it weren't so suicidal. "And what exactly are you planning to do about it?"
The question hangs between us like a blade waiting to fall. Around us, Vestige continues its dance of sin and shadow, but the space we occupy has become something else—a pocket of tension where predator and prey circle each other with careful words and careful movements.
I reach for the blade hidden in my jacket, my fingers closing around the familiar weight of steel and enchanted fire. One quick thrust, and the problem disappears. One human thief, however skilled, isn't worth the complications her continued existence might bring.
But when I try to draw the weapon, my hand refuses to cooperate.
The blade stays sheathed, held in place by something that feels like iron bands around my wrist. I try again, putting real force behind the movement, but my arm might as well be carved from stone for all the response I get.
What the fuck?
Power crackles through the air around us, not the familiar heat of my own magic but something older, deeper, woven into the fundamental fabric of the world itself. Divine magic, the kind that shapes fate and binds souls, pressing down on me with inexorable weight.
The human thief stares up at me with those storm-colored eyes, completely unaware of the supernatural forces suddenly swirling around us. She probably thinks my hesitation is some kind of psychological game, a predator playing with prey before the final strike.
If only it were that simple.
I try once more to draw the blade, marshaling every ounce of will and magic at my disposal. The weapon doesn't budge. Whatever power holds it in place is absolute, unbreakable, woven into reality itself with threads I recognize but have never felt directed at me personally.
Divine intervention, fate magic, the kind of cosmic meddling that mortals whisper about in temples and legends. And it's focused on this moment, this human thief, this choice between her life and death.
She's still waiting for me to act, her body coiled with tension but her expression defiant. Beautiful and doomed and completely unaware that the universe itself has just declared her untouchable.
At least by my blade.
