Draco
Morning finds me awake before the sun, staring at the cottage ceiling while my mind replays last night on an endless loop.
She knows.
The gladiator. The arena. The scars that map two thousand years of survival carved into my skin. I showed her the ugliest parts of myself—the parts I've spent a lifetime hiding—and she didn't flinch. Didn't turn away. Didn't look at me like I was a relic or a monster or something broken beyond repair.
She looked at me as though I was whole.
I roll off the couch and move through my morning routine on autopilot—feeding Lucky, brewing coffee, trying not to think about how Charity's hands felt on my scars. Reverent. Like she was reading something sacred instead of evidence of violence.
"You're not alone anymore."
The words settle in my chest, warm and terrifying. I've been alone for so long I forgot there was another option. Even at the sanctuary, surrounded by men who shared my impossible history, I kept myself apart. Easier that way. Safer.
But Charity doesn't let me be safe. She sees past every defense I've spent a lifetime perfecting, straight through to the parts of me I thought I'd buried in Roman sand.
Lucky’s tail gives a soft swish against the floor, his way of telling me I’m overthinking again. I scratch behind his ears, and he leans into my hand with absolute trust, this limping stray who decided we were his pack.
Smart dog.
I know she’s close before I hear her, sensing her arrival the way you feel a storm building. Change in pressure. Electricity in the air.
She steps inside and stops just past the threshold, still wearing that leather jacket from yesterday, her platinum hair loose around her shoulders. The morning light catches it like spun silver. Her pale blue eyes find mine and hold, and I see it immediately—the same question that's been eating at me since she walked out last night.
What happens now?
"Hi," she says, soft enough that it feels like a confession.
"Hi."
Lucky trots over to her, demanding his morning greeting. She kneels to rub his chest, but her gaze stays on me. There's a determination in her expression I've seen before—the same look she had before our first subway ride, before she chose vintage clothes that made her look dangerous instead of delicate.
"I want to show you something," she says, standing. "If you're ready."
My pulse kicks. "Show me what?"
"A place.Myplace." She twists her hands together, nervous energy radiating off her in waves. "The locked building. My workshop."
The mysterious outbuilding she disappears into. The secret she's been keeping as carefully as I kept mine.
"You don't have to—" I start, but she cuts me off.
"I know. But I want to." She lifts her chin, that stubborn angle that means she's made up her mind. "You showed me who you really are. I want to do the same."
The parallel hits me square in the chest. She's offering trust for trust. Vulnerability for vulnerability. The kind of exchange I've never believed in before—never had reason to.
"Okay," I say, and her shoulders drop with relief.
"Okay," she echoes, like she's confirming it to herself.
We walk the estate paths in silence, Lucky tripodding between us with his tongue lolling happily. The converted carriage house looms ahead, larger than I expected—stone walls and soaring ceilings, skylights throwing geometric shadows across overgrown climbing vines. It looks less like an art studio and more like a temple someone forgot to finish.
Charity pulls out a key that hangs on a chain around her neck—I couldn’t help but notice it that night on the couch, but never asked about it.Her fingers shake as she fits it into the heavy lock.
"No one comes in here but me," she says quietly. "Not even the staff. I told them years ago that this space was off-limits."
"Why?"
