Page 7

Lucien’s mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Ah,” he murmured, voice dropping low, “like what you see, Ivy?”

My pulse jumped, traitorously loud in my ears. Heat pooled across my chest, my nipples tightening visibly against the thin fabric of my sundress. My traitorous body was giving me away.

His eyes flicked downward, lingering shamelessly on my breasts, hunger flashing dark and unmasked before sliding back to my face.

I yanked a curl forward, twisting it between my fingers, trying to ground myself. Trying not to imagine those broad palms sliding down my dress, thick fingers closing over my breasts…

“Careful,” Lucien said, taking a step closer, closing the inches between us. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might forget why I came here.”

The air between us thickened with a heaviness that felt like the moment before a storm breaks. My breath came fast, too fast, and I hated that he would know. He was likely cataloguing every detail of my body’s betrayal. His tone was no longer sharp with suspicion, but rich with something else. Something far more dangerous.

My breath caught as he tilted his head, gaze still burning over me. “Join me for dinner tonight,” he said softly, as though it were already decided. “Somewhere quiet. You and me. Let’s see if you’ll loosen that tongue of yours.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. A dozen warnings clashed in my head at once. Kingy’s frantic squeak: they know. The High Sisters’ frost-edged threat: you will attend the council. You will speak plainly. Now, Lucien stood in my shop like temptation given flesh, pressing me in ways neither the wards nor my willpower felt strong enough to contain. Every instinct screamed that this was a mistake. But beneath it all was a quieter, traitorous, even breathless, voice. What if it isn’t? What if dinner with Lucien Vale changes everything?

The silence between us stretched taut as my wards. Then Lucien smiled as though my hesitation amused him, and without waiting for an answer, turned toward the door. I stood rooted to the spot, breath ragged, hands trembling against the fabric of my dress. I caught my reflection in the shop window. Flushed cheeks, wide eyes, I looked like a woman who had just been marked. Dinner. With Lucien Vale. Am I out of my mind?

Violet leapt onto the counter, golden eyes narrowing at me as though she already knew the answer. I shouldn’t accept. Oh, I shouldn’t. I could almost hear my great-grandmother’s voice, sharp as ever: Never break bread with a man who wants something you cannot afford to give.

I slid my gaze down Lucien’s shoulders, over the way his suit stretched across his chest, the teasing suggestion of ink beneath his collar, and those hands…If I can scratch an itch with him, I will, and if it distracts him from sniffing too close to the truth, even better.

I forced a sultry smile, cocking my head just so. “Dinner, then. Tonight at seven. The Marrowglass, two blocks over.”

His smirk deepened, wicked and knowing. “Perfect. Wear something sinful.”

My brows lifted, mouth curving slyly. “Keep that stunning suit on, and you’ve got a deal.”

He chuckled low, which sounded like a promise.

The moment the door shut behind him, I spun on my heel, cheeks hot, heart hammering. It had to be the little black dress. It was sleek, stretchy and hugged every curve like a lover’s hand. Its plunging neckline promised sin without saying a word. Yes.

By nightfall, nerves had melted into delicious anticipation. I stood before my flat’s tiny mirror, smoothing the fabric over the curve of my ass, tugging it until my breasts swelled high and perfect above the neckline. A hint of shimmer on my eyes, a sweep of red across my lips, and heels that made my calves sing.

“Violet,” I murmured, crouching to stroke my cat one last time. “Behave while Mummy goes out.”

Violet flicked her tail, unimpressed, but I swore the calico’s golden eyes glinted knowingly.

Dinner with the Devil

The Marrowglass loomed elegant and exclusive, its black marble façade glowing under lantern light. Lucien leaned against the front arch as though he owned the night itself. He wore the same devastating suit, but with a deep garnet tie that made his eyes burn hot and sharp. When his gaze landed on me, it smouldered, slow and consuming, sweeping down the line of my body. He lingered on my breasts and again on my thigh, revealed by the daring slit in my black dress. Heat prickled across my skin, and my breath caught.

“My gods, Ivy,” he murmured as I approached. “Are you trying to kill me before we even make it to the table?”

I arched a brow, masking my thrill with a teasing smile. “Just levelling the field, Lucien. You started this game.”

Inside, we were ushered to a secluded corner table lit by a single, flickering candle. Crystal glasses gleamed, silver cutlery shone, and a bottle of wine was uncorked with a flourish. As the waiter retreated, Lucien leaned forward, the candlelight dancing in his amber eyes.

“You don’t strike me as a woman who just sells books because of the quiet life, Ivy,” he began, his voice a low, melodic purr. “I’ve spent time in your shop. There’s a specific kind of soul in that place. The way that massive array of hand-dyed yarns seems to bleed into the colours of the sunset, the way the paints are tucked between the poetry. It’s not just organised. It’s a living, breathing landscape of everything tactile. Most magic in this city feels like old stone and stagnant air, all ego and ancient bloodlines. But your store... it tastes like sunshine and wild earth. It’s a frequency I haven't felt in Ebonvale for a very long time.”

I took a slow sip of the wine, the vintage sharp and bright on my tongue. “I think people forget that magic isn't just chanting in old languages,” I replied, the heat of his gaze making my skin prickle. “It’s in the hands. It’s the way a certain shade of blue can make you feel like you’re underwater, or how the tension in a knit can hold a memory. I like things that have a bit of mess to them—the free will of a stray thread or a paint splatter.”

Lucien’s lips curved into a genuine smirk. “A bit of mess? The Council would have a collective stroke if they heard that. They spend centuries trying to scrub the 'free will' out of magic, trying to make it rigid and predictable.”

“That’s exactly why I stay on the fringe,” I countered, leaning in. “The Council wants a museum, but I want a workshop. They’re so busy trying to control the power that they’ve forgotten the joy of creating something with it. I’d rather teach a kid how to bind their first journal or help Aggy find the right wool for a new project than spend an hour listening to Shirl talk about ‘Arcane Purity’.”

“A dangerous sentiment for a shopkeeper,” he said softly, his gaze dipping to my mouth. He reached for the bottle, his fingers brushing mine, slow, intentional, and electric. “But then, I suspect you’re much more than a shopkeeper. I think you know exactly which rules are worth breaking.”

I laughed, the sound feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “Only the boring ones, Lucien.”