Vivienne’s jaw tightens so subtly I almost miss it. “Force and punishments are not how we run our family, Octavia.”
“Of course not,” she replies with a sharp smile. “But softness doesn’t forge leaders, Viv. It just delays the reckoning.”
Evangeline practically beams as she reclines in her seat, her bracelets chiming with delicate menace. “This is why Eric and I never rushed to have children. With all the magical and medical advancements, why bind yourself early? You could wait until your bones creak and your legacy’s still secured.”
She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush that somehow still manages to carry across the terrace. “But between us girls . . . Eric thinks we may not need heirs at all soon. Not if things go as planned. Immortality, darlings. Wouldn’t that be delicious?”
Margaux raises an unimpressed brow. “Sounds boring.”
I just sit back and let them talk, watching the cracks show beneath all that shimmer and charm. This is my future now. Sipping perfumed poisons while the extinction of bloodlines becomes casual brunch conversation. Immortality as the next must-have accessory.
I’ve never been more grateful for the endless etiquette lessons that taught me how to smile while quietly imagining everyone at the table dead.
Raze stands over thestove like he’s neutralizing a live bomb instead of preparing pasta, his muscles coiled tight beneath rolled sleeves. The scent that drifts through the kitchen is disarming—roasted garlic, sun-dried tomato, basil—warmth rendered tangible.
Grief edges in without warning.
My mom always cooked by hand. No spells, no shortcuts. She claimed real flavor demanded labor. Patience, mess, devotion. Even after sixteen-hour stints in the lab, she’d come home and insist on making every meal herself. I used to sit at the counter taking in every precise movement, her mind elsewhere, her hands steady.
Now the kitchen is too quiet. Too clean.
My fingers tap out an erratic rhythm against the marble, the twitch of restlessness bleeding into my leg the moment I force them still.
Then I notice the apron Raze has on. It’s pink. Frilled, and bubblegum-bright, with a stitched cartoon heart that belongs in a love-themed bakery, not strapped to a man who once shattered someone’s jaw for wrinkling my coat.
A startled laugh escapes me. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Raze doesn’t blink. If anything, he squares his shoulders and grins.
“Touch a single thing in this kitchen and I’ll file you as a security threat,” he warns, brandishing the spoon with conviction. “After last week’s catastrophe, you’re officially on the culinary blacklist.”
“The fire was minor—”
“You incinerated a lasagna. Kane still has nightmares about it.” He jabs the spoon toward me. “I’ve killed men for less catastrophic crimes against pasta. Besides, I refuse to survive another week of takeout. This body is a temple of violence, Ellis. It requires real sustenance.”
I snort into my wine. “Your modesty is humbling.”
“Pragmatism,” he deadpans. “If I get soft, who’s going to keep you alive when the masses discover you’re marrying Eclipsera’s most eligible bachelor?” He plates the food with militaristic exactness, setting a fork down in front of me. “Try not to offend the gods of cuisine while I’m gone. I need five uninterrupted minutes of sanity.”
“What could I possibly ruin? The sauce?”
He chuckles under his breath, already stalking off and muttering something about protein balance, and how his combat certifications never included emotionally unstable brides with arsonist tendencies. I hide a smile behind my glass. For a man tasked with monitoring my every move, Raze has perfected the art of creating space without relinquishing control. He cooks. He threatens. He pretends not to see the cracks when I start to break.
Mom would have liked him. Or, at the very least, respected the pasta.
When I finish eating, he reappears carrying two items: a dish towel draped over his shoulder in quiet defeat, and a black velvet box that sends my pulse skidding sideways.
“Delivery,” he says, setting it down like it might detonate. “Figured you’d want solitude for this one. Kane’s not on till midnight, so you’re stuck with me. I’ll be in the next room, actively ignoring your existential spiral.”
“Thanks,” I manage, but my voice cracks on the word. He’s already gone, boots retreating with the expertise of someone who’s witnessed far too many emotional implosions to bother counting.
The box sits there like a death sentence dressed in velvet, and my hands tremble as I reach for it. I have to curl them into fists twice before I can summon enough control to lift the lid.
When I finally pry it open, the ring inside is exactly the kind of absurd I should have anticipated. The diamond is audacious—cut like a weapon, cold and vicious in its clarity. It doesn’t just declare affluence; it weaponizes it, daring anyone to question its origin or intent.
Beneath it, folded with precise angles that somehow manage to look angry, is a note in Dom’s familiar slash of handwriting.
Since I can’t be there to put this on your finger, and because Father insists on turning every private moment into a spectacle, I thought I’d send it ahead. You’re probably rolling your eyes already. Good. I’d be worried if you weren’t.
