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Then he turned.

“Romanus, darling!” he boomed, placing a small black device in his pocket and flinging his arms open. “You left me with the emotional weight of brunch planning all by myself. I’ve been dying.”

Oh. God. He was hot and sparkly. A gay Thor with fashion sense and a flair for dramatics. I was not equipped for this.

Roman gave him a half-hearted glare as he was swept into a hug, his feet lifting an inch off the floor.

“Still not a hugger,” he grunted.

Lucien waved that off with a flick of glittering fingers. “You love it.”

Then his golden eyes landed on me, and I braced myself. He approached like a man strutting to his own theme music, taking both of my hands in his and kissing the air above my knuckles.

“And this,” he said, as if narrating for the room, “must be the woman who finally convinced our Roman to stop emotionally nesting in that sad little apartment of his. Welcome to Casa Del Soulfire, my darling.”

Casa. Del. Soulfire.

I blinked.

Lucien’s smile widened. “You’re radiant.”

He spoke like there was a camera crew just out of frame, and I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he turned and addressed them directly. With a grand sweep of his arm, he gestured for us to sit. He ordered drinks without consulting a menu, then turned to compliment the waitress’s earrings and offered to send her a crystal recommendation for the blockage in her throat chakra.

I had officially entered another dimension.

Lucien’s drink arrived first. It was glacial and dramatic with a slice of starfruit curling along the rim. He sipped, then leaned forward on a bejeweled fist.

“So,” he said. “How did you two lovebirds meet?”

I froze. Roman and I had not agreed on a story. We’d spent hours talking about what to wear, what to say if I blanked, how to survive the vibe check. But the actual “how we met” part?

We’d decided to wing it in the moment, and I was deeply regretting that now.

Roman cleared his throat. “Funny story, actually. There was a cursed book. Minor explosion. We were at a flea market. Maggie caught me in her arms…like a fireman carry.”

Lucien blinked once. Slowly. One perfectly arched brow rose like a curtain. “Hmm.”

I smiled through the panic. “He… loves flea markets,” I said. “And books. It’s honestly kind of hot.”

Then, trying to sell it, I reached over and grabbed Roman’s hand. He stiffened immediately, like I’d handed him a raccoon instead of a romantic gesture.

I leaned closer and whispered, “You good?”

He nodded quickly, ears going pink, eyes blinking like he forgot how people worked.

Lucien, of course, was already pivoting. “Maggie, darling, what is it you do?”

“Graphic design,” I said quickly, and then panicked harder. “I mean, freelance branding. Mostly supernatural clients. Sigils, ancient symbols, sexy typography, that sort of thing.” I wasn’t sure why the lie came so easily. Maybe impressing Lucien meant more to me than I let on.

Lucien gasped. “Typography is everything.” He leaned back, swirling his drink. “I assume Roman told you about the mandatory mating policy? All eligible shifters twenty-one and older must bond for the sake of pack stability.”

I nodded. “Oh, of course. I mean, he’s practically proposed already. He just won’t let me pick the ring.”

Lucien gave me a terrifyingly sweet smile. “Charming. I’ve decided something,” he announced, clapping his massive hands together. “You two are doing karaoke.”

I was sure I’d misheard. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Karaoke,” he repeated, teeth gleaming, eyes sparkling with unholy delight. “It’s a pack tradition. Builds trust. Builds community.”