He smirks. “Yeah, I am.”
I’m happy for him, and can only hope that one day I’ll have that same fortune in love. “You’re almost human now,” I tease. “Who would have thought?”
He laughs. “Careful. That talk gets you killed.”
“In our old circles, perhaps. We’re making new ones now.”
We sit in companionable silence for a moment, the city humming beyond the tall windows. Taxis. Sirens. Life. A distant horn echoes up from the street, bouncing between the buildings before fading into the night.
Then Lucien shifts, turning slightly toward me. “So,” he says casually. “The redhead at the bar. Was that the enjoyable night? Is she someone I need to know more about?”
I freeze for exactly half a second.
He grins, not missing a beat. “You know, the one you left with. Tall, Siren's hair, didn’t care about your name.”
I exhale and sink deeper into the couch. “You always watching?”
“Always,” he says. “And judging by the state of your shirt…” His gaze flicks to the faint crease across my chest. “The ride home was…productive.”
I scoff. “I don’t divulge details.”
“I didn’t ask for them.” He grins. “But I approve.”
I hide a smile. “It ended pleasantly.”
“Mm.”
“And I hope to see her again,” I admit, not really knowing why I want my brother to know that fact.
Lucien stands, setting down his glass. “It’s about time.” He claps my shoulder. “Good to see a spark again, Stephen.”
I swallow, nodding once.
He pauses at the door, one hand on the elevator button. “Try not to scare her off.”
The elevator opens and closes before him, leaving the loft silent again. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the space he occupied, a heaviness settling in my chest. His words echo—a spark. With a jolt, I realize how dim everything had become until tonight. Until Dallen.
I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb hovering before I type her first name into the search bar along with her address.
Nothing.
No surname hint. No socials. No tagged photos. No digital trail.
That’s…unusual. I lean back and exhale slowly, confusion mixing with relief. It’s a reminder of the risks. People disappear when they learn who I am, who our father was, and the chaos he inflicted on the city in the eighties. What hell our name carries. Every connection feels dangerous, as though honesty would ruin any hope of happiness.
Dallen doesn’t know anything about me. I should feel relieved that I may not see her again, but uncertainty twists in me. A part of me wants to keep what we’ve starteduncomplicated for just a little longer, because the truth tends to scare people away. I can’t decide which frightens me more—being rejected for what I am, or never being known at all.
And I don’t think I’m ready to watch her walk. But as luck would have it, I know where she lives, so hope cuts through my uncertainty, settling a little anticipation in my chest.
I will see her again, and this time I’ll find out her last name and number.
SIX
DALLEN
I walk into my parents’Tribeca apartment. It’s opulent—old money meets working class, with my father as Chief of Police. I hear them in the upstairs parlor, my mother’s favorite room, the cook humming in the kitchen as she prepares our usual Sunday roast. My mother always wished she’d been born into British aristocracy—apparently, that would’ve made her nearly perfect life even better.
“Mom, Dad, I’m home.” I climb the stairs and enter the parlor to find them fussing over a painting that’s leaning up against the wall, their debate clearly on where to place yet another masterpiece in the room.
