“You don’t own the place, it’s mine!” I remind him.
“—and then he just… has to live with that. In his brain. Forever.”
Despite myself, I laugh uncontrollably.
God, I needed that.
“You’re deranged.”
“Thank you, I work hard at it.”
13
Lucian
Sir Sass kneads the collar of my jacket, determined and relentless, as if he presses hard enough, he can anchor me to this moment. His weight is solid against my throat, a warm and steady reminder that I’m here, upright, breathing.
The number Orion sent me is bolted to the side of the rig in clean black numbering against white siding. My reflection stares back at me through her tinted windows. So this is her space.
I hadn’t expected to stand here like with my heart racing, and nerves stretched thin with a cat that clings to me like emotional body armor. It’s almost funny. Almost.
Still, I hesitate.
When I take one step forward, there’s no undoing it. Two steps, and whatever version of my life existed before this door closes behind me is gone.
My pulse climbs into my throat, as if my body knows exactly what’s waiting on the other side and is bracing before my mindcan catch up. I lift my hand and knock three times, as if there’s a quiet, unspoken message buried in the rhythm.
I’m here.
I showed up.
I’m trying.
The door opens almost immediately, like she was waiting for me.
But it isn’t Celeste.
It’s a wet, shirtless, heavily inked man, far too comfortable in his stance to be standing in someone else’s doorway. His dark hair is damp and curling at the ends, like he stepped straight out of the shower and into my path. He leans against the frame with an ease that suggests ownership, bare feet planted, posture relaxed in a way that’s almost confrontational.
Shit.
I glance past him, then back again, my brain trying to recalibrate. Maybe I’ve got the wrong place. Maybe this isn’t—
“I might be lost,” I say before I can stop myself, pulse dropping to my stomach. “I was told this is Celeste’s rig.”
His expression shifts, and interest sparks behind his eyes before a slow, amused smile spreads across his face. He straightens just enough to extend a hand. “It is. You must be Lucian.”
The way he says it tells me he already knows who I am. His voice is smooth and confident, carrying the particular tone men use when they assume they’re the most compelling person in the room. Something sharp presses in behind my ribs, tight and unwelcome.
Sir Sass chooses that moment to purr louder against my shoulder, vibrating with smug approval like he finds this entire situation entertaining.
“And you are?” I ask, voice even, but my jaw tightens just enough that I know he notices.
“Linkin,” he answers, and it’s delivered like a title rather than a name. His smirk suggests I should recognize it. “I’m her…friend,” he adds, the pause just as deliberate as the emphasis, “and Umbra’s guitarist.”
The way he saysfriendtells me he wants it to mean more.
“Bodyguard,” I say mildly, angling my chin toward the interior of the rig. “Do you mind?”
