Caelum’s standing at the end of the hall, jacket unbuttoned, tie loose around his throat. His sleeves rolled up, cufflinks glinting faintly in the light. There’s something unreadable in his expression — tired, maybe. Or something worse.
“You left early,” he says.
I blink, confusion giving way to something dangerously close to appreciation. “You noticed.”
He takes a few steps closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just deliberate enough that I feel my pulse trip in my throat.
“I notice everything,” he says.
He stops a few feet away, close enough for me to smell the faint trace of smoke and bergamot on his skin. My body betrays me — I want to breathe it in, and I hate myself for it.
“It’s been three days,” he says. “You’ve adapted quickly.”
I lift my chin. “I’m surviving.”
“Is that what you call it?”
It’s the same tone he used in the bedroom the night he came back empty-handed. Measured, quiet, too calm for comfort.
“I’m making the best of a bad situation,” I answer.
He studies me. I hate how it feels — like he’s peeling me open layer by layer, too patient to make it hurt but too thorough to let me hide. “I don’t believe that,” he says finally. “You’re not the type to settle.”
I want to snap back, but I can’t find the words fast enough.
He takes another step, close enough now that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. “You’ve changed the energy in this house,” he says softly. “They’re all watching you now.”
I meet his eyes. “And you?”
His mouth curves, just slightly. “I don’t need to watch. I already know what you’ll do.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he says. “You’ll stay. At least until you decide it’s more dangerous.”
He’s right.
And I hate that he’s right.
He brushes past me — doesn’t touch, doesn’t look back — just leaves the ghost of his cologne behind him as he walks away.
It’s only when I’m alone again that I realize my hand’s shaking on the doorknob.
Because he’snotwrong.
And that terrifies me more than any threat he’s ever made.
I wake to the sound of rain.
Soft, constant, the kind that makes London look like it’s been dipped in glass.
For a moment, I let myself pretend I’m anywhere else. My bed. My flat. My life before all this. Then the scent of coffee and smoke threads through the door, and the illusion shatters.
They’re awake.
By the time I make it downstairs, the kitchen’s alive with low conversation and clinking dishes. The morning ritual — their version of normal.
Saint’s at the stove, sleeves rolled, flipping something that smells faintly of cinnamon. Wraith leans against the far counter, arms folded, watching the door like it might attack him. Ash’s laptop glows on the table, his attention split between screens. Mateo sits opposite him, nursing a mug and looking entirely too amused for someone who hasn’t said a word to me yet.
