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Vale looked at the ceiling like his patience lived up there.

The woman pointed toward the photo panel behind me. “Stand there.”

I didn’t move. “Vale.”

“It means,” he said, low enough for only me, “that if anything in this building sees you as a threat, it’ll pause before reacting. If it sees you in danger, it’ll react like you are him.”

“Why?”

Vale avoided eye contact.

“Of course.”

“Photo,” the woman said. “Unless the Executive Protection Asset would prefer a formal invitation with refreshments.”

I made a face when the flash went off. A very unfortunate face. A sleek badge slid from the machine. Black metal with my name engraved beneath it.

Olivia HeartExecutive Protection AssetPriority Tier: Black

Vale slipped the lanyard over my head with surprising care, the badge settling against my chest like a tiny corporate threat.

“There,” the woman said. “Restricted floors, private elevators, executive safe rooms, medical, transport, emergency channels. If someone asks who you report to, say Vale. If they keep asking, tap the badge twice and step back.”

“What happens then?”

“Security arrives,” Vale said.

“Fast,” the woman added.

Vale guided me away, and we moved toward the private elevator bank behind a wall of black glass. The badge warmed against my chest as the wardstone tasted my magic, my pulse, the half-awake succubus under my skin, then settled with a hum.

Vale tapped his badge. The elevator doors opened. My ears popped once on the way up, and my stomach dropped.

“Breathe,” Vale said. Then he stepped away. “I’ll be in the office.”

He left.

The doors opened. My brain broke. “Penthouse” was too small a word. This was a kingdom with throw pillows and marble, lots and lots of marble, sleek black accents on white floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire space, and New Abaddon spread beneath them in glittering lines. From up here, the city looked clean. Beautiful. My apartment could fit in one corner.

Then I saw him.

He leaned against the kitchen island like sin had gotten comfortable. No shirt. Dark-gray sweatpants low on his hips. Bare feet on polished stone. Mask still on, matte black and severe, narrow eye slits aimed at me while the pointed lower edges framed a smirk that did terrible things to my judgment.

“Liv,” he said.

My name in his mouth did something stupid to my knees. My gaze dragged down his body before my brain approved the trip. Carved muscle, white hair messy like he had run his hands through it too many times. Domestic and dangerous at once, like he might make coffee or commit a felony depending on how the evening unfolded.

“Hi,” I said, because, apparently, a master of banter had possessed me and died halfway through.

“I feel underdressed,” I said.

“You look like you.”

That sounded sweet. He crossed toward me, stopping an arm’s length away, hands loose in the pockets of his pants. That was when I saw the wall behind him. Books. Lots of them. Not a tasteful display of wealth with old leather books nobody touched. A full fucking wall. The far side of the penthouse had become a library.

I knew it hadn’t always been there. I’d seen pictures of this place online during my Lux Draven research spiral. That wall had been modern art. Black stone. Cold. Expensive.

Now it held books from floor to ceiling.