Page 14 of Mane Rival in Store by Milly Taiden

She said you have the best Joker archive on the East Coast.

He absorbed this. Did not examine the heat that spread through his chest at the knowledge that Lark Coleman was sending customers his direction and describing his archive as the best on the East Coast.

“She has good judgment,” he said, and handed the kid his wrapped print.

Dekel, who had been shelving inventory four feet away and heard every word, said nothing. His silence was louder than any commentary.

The kid left. Rune stared at the door. Through the glass gap, he caught a sliver of movement inside Villainette—dark hair swinging as she crossed her store floor, a flash of gold at her ear, the confident stride he’d cataloged in ninety seconds and replayed at involuntary intervals since.

“She recommended us,” Dekel said. Casual. Too casual. A verbal grenade with the pin loosely replaced.

“She recommended our Joker archive. It’s an accurate assessment. We do have the strongest Joker holdings on the East Coast.”

“She figured that out before you did,” Dekel said, and shelved the volume.

Rune opened his mouth. Closed it. Straightened a stack of authentication brochures that was already straight.

Gerald Fontaine returned half an hour before closing.

Rune was in the back office reviewing third-quarter consignment reports when the bell chimed. He didn’t look up. Dekel was on the floor. Then Dekel appeared in the office doorway with an expression Rune hadn’t seen before—amusement drained out, replaced by a flat alertness.

“Gerald’s back.”

“Does he need another edition?”

“No.” Dekel tilted his head toward the shared wall. “He went next door.”

Rune stood.

Through the glass, the sliver of visibility showed Gerald Fontaine in the middle of the store, overcoat buttoned to the throat, reading glasses perched, delivering a verdict from a bench he’d appointed himself to.

Rune moved to the gap. Dekel followed.

Human ears wouldn’t have caught the words through the glass. Lion ears were not human ears. Every syllable carried with crisp, damning clarity.

“—a disservice to the cultural integrity of this block.” Gerald’s chin was lifted, one hand raised in practiced authority. “I’ve been patronizing SoHo since before you were born, young lady. This neighborhood has a standard. An aesthetic. What you’ve built here is—” The sweeping hand encompassed the store how a prosecutor encompasses evidence of poor taste. “—a novelty. Lipstick and costumes. It’s not serious retail. Perhaps you should reconsider the concept if you’d like to be taken seriously as a merchant on this block.”

Beside Rune, Dekel inhaled through his teeth. A sharp, quiet hiss.

Lark stood behind her counter. Arms at her sides. Her chin was up, but her shoulders had drawn back—a millimeter, no more, the kind of retreat only someone watching closely would notice. She was listening. Not arguing. Letting Gerald deliver his assessment the way a professional absorbs an unreasonable client: with grace, and with cost.

“I appreciate your perspective,” she said. Even. Measured. The bright warmth stripped from her voice, replaced by careful neutrality that sounded nothing like her. “Villainette serves a different market than what you may be accustomed to, but I assure you the concept is⁠—”

“The concept is a gift shop with ambitions.” Gerald shook his head slowly. “I’m not trying to be unkind. I’m trying to help. This block deserves better.”

A customer near the beauty bar glanced over. Breezy, visible at the back of the store, had stopped typing and was watching with the coiled stillness of a woman calculating how many seconds to allow before intervention.

Rune’s lion hit the surface of his skin like a wave against a seawall.

The sensation was instantaneous—heat flooding his chest, his vision sharpening to predatory focus, a low vibration building in his throat that he clamped down on before it became audible. His hair rose. Not at the temples. Everywhere. The thick fall across his forehead lifted and thickened, the follicles responding to a surge of adrenaline and territorial fury that had nothing to do with Gerald’s complaints about bass frequencies and everything to do with the woman behind the counter who had pulled her shoulders back because a man was standing in her store making her feel small.

No one diminishes her.

The thought arrived without permission. Fully formed. Non-negotiable.

“Rune.” Dekel’s voice was careful. “Your hair.”

“I see it.”