When she disappears inside, I slump against the doorframe and scrub my hands over my face.
Lucky huffs from his spot on the rug, tail thumping in what I swear is amusement.
"Not a word," I tell him. "Not one word about my complete lack of self-control."
His tail thumps harder.
I lock up the cottage and try to settle on the couch, but sleep is impossible. I can still taste her. Still feel the ghost of her hands on my skin. Still hear that broken gasp when I kissed her throat.
Tomorrow, she'll come back with her hundred dollars, ready to learn proper city survival skills.
Tonight, I'm learning that wanting Charity Pembroke might be the most dangerous thing I've done since waking from a two-thousand-year sleep.
And I'm doing it anyway.
Chapter Twelve
Charity
The last few days blurred into an easy rhythm—morning coffees in the cottage, Lucky trailing us like a furry shadow, small lessons slipped between moments. I’ve taught him tiny pieces of the life he never got to have—easy mornings, shared silence—and I’ve watched in awe at how naturally he steps into them. He’s taught me how to read a subway car before I step onto it. We stay busy enough that the heat between us simmers instead of detonates, but it’s there—constant, humming, impossible to ignore.
It’s late morning, and my hands won’t stay still. I unzip the inside pocket of my tote and check the folded bills Draco made me count last night. His rule echoes:inside pocket or not at all.I almost slipped money into the outside slot this morning without thinking. Even now, I hear his voice correcting me.
Lucky noses my knee as if to say,don’t forget.I rub behind his ear. "Back soon, Lucky." His tail thumps once in solemn agreement.
Draco waits at the cottage door, jacket on, gaze steady. He can tell I’m nervous, so he steps forward and walks beside me. We lock up and cut along the treeline toward the road, slipping out quietly so no one notices us heading to the train.
The October air bites sharp. On the train platform, I want to grip the post but don’t. Instead, I stand with my shoulder an inch from his. Breathe like we practiced: in four, out six. He doesn’t touch me, just shifts so I’m shielded when the crowd presses close. He always knows where the pressure will come from.
"Where are we going?" I ask once we board.
He names a neighborhood I've only heard about on the news. The doors close. My heart kicks. Away we go.
The streets smell like coffee, metal, and something fried. Music hums from open doors. A mural of teeth and flowers swallows a brick wall whole. A kid on a scooter carves around us like water. I feel like I’m walking inside a pulse.
"Here," Draco says, steering me toward a storefront painted matte black. Rat Queen Vintage. A bell tinkles when we step in.
Leather. Dust. Bergamot. Maybe a million stories.
Racks crowd close—military jackets, shredded tees soft as secrets, velvet dresses dark as midnight. A clerk with a lip ring and a shirt that reads "pay artists" sees us, then grins. "Welcome. Sizes are suggestions. Try whatever calls you."
Whispering, I say, "Nothing calls me yet. I don’t know how to choose."
I edge between the racks, fingers brushing fabrics. A black top with a slashed neckline catches my eye, silver grommets glinting on the shoulder. I lift it, surprised at my own boldness. Draco doesn’t direct me—he just watches, quiet and steady, as if waiting for me to recognize myself.
I turn to Draco, half-expecting him to laugh at my choice. Instead, he tips his chin toward a row of long velvet dresses that look like they've lived through history. "There are pretty things here. But pretty isn’t the point. Who are you when you’re not performing as theperfect daughter?"
The words strike harder than I want to show. "I don’t know."
"Then we find out," he says simply.
I browse through the shop, looking first, then touching textures and fraying hems. I grab a pair of checkered pants because the fabric feels sturdy, not polite. A jacket—soft leather, lived-in. At the counter by the jewelry, a thin chain with a tiny silver star calls to me. I snag it with one finger.
As I wander, Draco picks up a battered toy sword from a clearance bin, balancing it in his hand. "Too light," he mutters with a half-smile, before setting it back. The clerk doesn’t notice, but I do. It feels like a wink, like he’s letting me glimpse something he’ll never name.
The mirror in the tiny booth is too close. The top slides on; the neckline bares my throat like a dare. The pants hug firm. The jacket whispers against my skin.
My pulse hammers in my throat, breath catching. Who am I if I pick myself?
