He turns and rushes inside, already fussing, the sounds of frantic tidying drifting out. A clattering kettle, muttered curses, the panic of a man desperate to offer hospitality where there is little to give.
I climb a few steps after him, then stop.
Turning back, I find myself nearly level with Luceran’s eyes while he remains at the foot of the stairs, moonlight cutting sharp lines across his face.
“He means that,” I say quietly. “We don’t have much. But I won’t have you make my father feel small in his own home.”
Luceran’s head snaps up. “I have no intention of humiliating your father,” he says flatly. “I did not come all this way to be cruel.”
“Then why did you come?” The question spills out of me before I can stop it. “What was that back at the inn?”
His eyes narrow as he folds his arms across his chest, expression closing like a door.
“What was what?”
I lift a pointed finger. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
He exhales, tilts his head, and looks away, as if the night sky has suddenly become fascinating. “I’m quite certain I have no idea what you mean.” Then, smoothly, “Your father invited me inside. So, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He goes to step past me, but without thinking, always without thinking, I grab his elbow.
He stops abruptly, even though I am nowhere near strong enough to keep him from moving. His gaze flicks to where my hand grips him.
“You let Rollin go,” I say. “Why?”
His eyes lift to mine, that burning gaze cutting straight through me.
“He owed a debt. I can do with him as I please, and I do not need to explain that to anyone. Especially you, Neve Devlin.”
But I do not let him off that easily.
“Was it mercy?” I press. “You knew he would die if you left him out there.”
“You think I care if a human dies?” he says, his tone cruel, mocking.
“Maybe not once,” I say. “But now I think things might be different.”
His hand moves to where my fingers still cling to him, and my breath hitches as he brushes against my skin, only to peel my hand away and reclaim his arm.
“Rollin was old and useless. He cost me more coin to feed and house than he ever earned back,” he says. “You have seen the ledgers. You know that is true. Releasing him saved me a fortune.”
Luceran takes another step toward the open door.
“Oris it because he heard the voice in the tunnels?” I ask. “Were you saving yourself coin, or saving Rollin from being taken over by the demon beneath the lake?”
He does not look back. He does not answer.
Instead, the boards of the porch creak beneath his weight as he ducks through the doorway, leaving me with the distinct sensation that I have skipped several pages in a book and missed something critical to the plot.
I follow him inside and close the door firmly behind me.
Father already has the kettle warming over the hearth. He rummages through our small cupboard and pulls out a plate of sweet cake, the kind he bakes himself and indulges in far more often than he admits. He gestures proudly toward the chair in the corner.
Our best chair.
The arms are worn thin, the cushion sagging from years of use, but it’s always been comfortable enough.
Luceran hesitates, taking in the smallness of the room, the low ceiling, the bowing walls, the worn furnishings, as if it has only just occurred to him that this is how most humans live. Then, with careful politeness, he nods and lowers himself into the chair.
