His gaze finds me at the counter. For a moment the warmth cools, the professional mask flickering back into place—then he remembers the child in his arms and the two still plastered to his legs, and the edges soften again.
“Harper,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“I am all right, thank you. Dayna has been shopping.”
I take in the scene: his nieces hanging off him without fear, Dayna watching with clear affection. This, then, is the man they know. Not the predator who stood in my garden and threatened me.
“Girls,” Dayna says, “please don’t overwhelm Harper. We need to use our inside voices.”
“We’re not overwhelming,” Elizabeth insists. “We’re welcoming.”
Lander laughs under his breath. “That you are.” He gently peels Philis from his leg. “Why don’t you three go and get dressed properly? I’ll make pancakes before I go to work.”
“Chocolate chips?” Cathy asks, eyes shining.
“If your mother approves,” he says.
Dayna sighs. “Fine. But you do not have to deal with them climbing the walls afterwards.”
“They’re already climbing the walls,” he points out.
The girls thunder off—out the door and down the corridor—arguing about who gets the bathroom first. Their voices fade.
Dayna pushes off the counter. “I had better help them,” she says with a rueful smile. “Harper, if you need anything, just let Lander know.”
“Thank you.” To give my shaking hands something to do, I eye the single-serve bottle of orange juice on the worktop. I pick it up; the glass is cool in my hand. I raise the bottle in acknowledgement. “And thank you for the food and the drink. It was very kind.”
“You are welcome.” She squeezes Lander’s arm as she passes. “Be nice,” she mouths at him.
“I’m always nice,” he mutters, but there is humour in it.
For a few seconds, the kitchen is quiet. He stands there, hands braced on the back of a barstool, watching me with those pale, assessing eyes.
A moment ago he was all uncle and pancakes; now I see again the man who spent a year hunting me.
The contrast makes my skin prickle.
He stares.
I make myself stare back.
“The paper mages are coming,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “They—” He cuts himself off.
I say nothing.
It is impressive they received my note so quickly; it has been only three hours, and they have already made contact.
“I don’t know what you did. But if you’re not a papermage, they will kill you. Whatever you’re trying to do, admit you were with the house, and we’ll mark you as a victim. Nobody’s blaming you, Harper.” He leans forward. “Drop this nonsense. Help me keep you safe.”
I continue to stare.
“So you’re not going to do anything?” he snaps. “You’ll just let them come, let them take you, let them kill you when they discover you’re not a paper mage?”
He exhales, exasperated. “Please, Harper, I know the house did some strange things, turned humans into shifters and vampires. But changing a mage’s designation? That doesn’t happen.” His tone softens. “Admit you’re a low-powered witch. Say you were staying at the house and were thrown clear when it was destroyed. Then I can help you. I can get that cuff off.” His eyes plead with me.
There is genuine fear in his gaze. And yet, I do not believe a word he says.
Centuries of knowledge lie within me; I see people—and the world—far more clearly than he imagines. He assumes that a handsome face and a few rehearsed phrases will sway me.
