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When we pulled into the circular drive, Lucien was waiting. He stood on the top step like some sort of Alpha Gatsby, arms spread wide, grinning like we’d just returned from battle rather than a scavenger hunt. Around him, the pack was gathering, some looking tired, some laughing, all of them eyeing the absurd enchanted trophy perched on a velvet-draped pedestal. It gleamed in the moonlight, silver wolves intertwined, magic making the eyes glow just faintly, like they were alive.

Roman helped me out of the car—of course he did—and we climbed the steps together, the city’s night air still clinging to our clothes, to our skin. Lucien clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the courtyard.

“Our champions return,” he announced, because subtlety had never been his thing. “And with what token of their adventure do they bless this sacred rite?”

I held up the ticket stub, my hand shaking just a little, though I told myself it was from the chill in the air. “A streetcar ticket,” I said, feeling a little ridiculous. “It’s... it’s ours.”

Lucien’s smile softened, something proud and knowing beneath all the theatrics.

“Mate energy unmatched,” he declared, as if we’d won an Olympic event. He lifted the trophy with both hands, magic sparking at his fingertips as he passed it to Roman like he was bestowing a holy relic. “May it always remind you of the bond forged this night.”

Roman took it, and when he looked at me, the weight of the evening settled between us, warm and impossible to ignore. Without thinking—at least I hoped it was without thinking—he pressed a kiss to my temple. A kiss that was meant just for me.

I let myself lean into him. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel his heartbeat, steady and sure, just long enough to breathe him in and wish, stupidly, that none of this had to be pretend. My heart gave that traitorous little stutter again, and I didn’t fight it. Not this time.

The applause from the others, Lucien’s dramatic commentary, the sparkle of magic in the air… it all faded until it was just Roman and me. The only thing that felt real in a night full of make-believe.

When I finally stepped back, Roman’s eyes were on mine, and there was something there… something I wasn’t ready to name, but couldn’t deny. I smiled, and together we turned to face the pack, the trophy between us, the night still humming with all the things left unsaid.

22

MAGGIE

When I stepped into the kickboxing studio the next morning, I let my shoulders drop and breathed in the scent of rubber and sweat. I was still riding the high from the scavenger hunt the previous night and was ready to kick some serious ass.

The music was already thumping. Low bass. High energy. The smell of rubber mats, faint eucalyptus spray, and good old-fashioned sweat filled the air. This was my kind of aromatherapy.

This was my place. My serotonin sanctuary. A little warehouse gym with peeling paint and old equipment that never let me down. I came here to clear my head, burn through my anxiety, and if I was lucky, get out of my own mind long enough to breathe again.

I picked my favorite bag near the back and started rolling my wraps, grateful for the familiar ritual. Left hand first. Loop, wrap the wrist, back over the knuckles. Everything else could wait.

I’d barely made it to my second hand when I heard it.

That voice.

“Oh, hey Maggie. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I stopped wrapping. Slowly, like my body needed a second to register that yes, God was indeed cruel, and no, I wasn’t getting a reprieve today.

I turned my head.

Seraphina. Wearing designer activewear so pristine it might’ve still had tags on it. Her makeup was flawless. Not a smudge of sweat in sight. She was already talking to the instructor, ponytail swishing as she adjusted it like she was shooting a campaign.

Did she even like kickboxing?

No. No, of course not. She was here for one reason only: To ruin my recreational life.

She glided over like a panther in three-hundred dollar sneakers, all confidence and polished teeth. “I thought I’d try something new,” she said, eyes sparkling with faux innocence. “Mind if I’m your partner today?”

I smiled. It was tight. Tense. The kind of smile you give someone right before a murder trial. “Sure. Why not.”

Apparently, I hated peace.

We started warm-ups, and I knew it was going to be hell within the first thirty seconds.

“Careful,” she chirped, correcting the angle of my wrist for the third time. “You’re flaring your elbow again. That can lead to injury.”

“I’m good,” I muttered, forcing my attention back to the drill.