Page 15
“The one convincing me I need to explain courtship using military de-escalation procedures.”
“I know how courtship works.”
“You’re planning to lurk outside her apartment, aren’t you?”
“You think you know me so well.” I turned away from him, glancing back momentarily. He eyed me, one eyebrow raised. “Fine, but only to check her wards.”
“While masked.”
I nodded. “Yes. A war is starting, and I need to make sure she’s safe.”
Vale shut his eyes again. “I am begging every god who abandoned this city to give me strength.” Exhaustion pulled at his features. “Keep the mask if you need the answer that badly. Give her time to decide what she thinks of the man wearing it.”
“That’s the plan.”
“I know.” He pointed one finger at me. “I’m asking you to remember that she gets to make decisions during this plan too.”
I held his gaze.
“I’ll protect her.”
Vale’s expression softened. “That’s the part I believe.”
“No one stops her,” I said. “No one follows her.”
Vale nodded once. “I’ll erase the lobby footage and restrict the delivery record.”
“Do it.”
My mark burned intensely as Olivia moved beyond the tower doors.
The distance felt wrong.
I stared at the elevator, at my reflection caught in the black glass beside it. Blood covered my clothes. Shadows moved beneath my skin. The city had entered a war less than an hour ago, yet the only thought holding my attention involved a woman with tired eyes and flowers in her hands.
Vale’s tablet chimed.
“I have the basic file.”
“Read it.”
“Olivia Heart, twenty-seven. She lives alone and works two jobs. New Abaddon City Coffee and Bellflower & Bone. No registered ability, declaration, or clan sponsorship. Her parents died during the uprising. Her financial records indicate she is surviving, if barely.”
No registered ability.
Powerless.
The word rubbed something raw inside me. My mate had no clan, no magic, and no protection beyond the laws I enforced. Scarn’s people culled demons like her in the South. Now his soldiers were crossing northern borders with help from crews inside my territory.
The photograph attached to her employment record had been taken in bad lighting after what appeared to be a long shift. Her brown hair sat in a loose knot, several pieces falling around her face, and she wore barely enough makeup to qualify as an attempt. No expensive glamour softened her features. No careful pose asked the viewer for their approval.
She had shown up at my tower the same way: wearing plain clothes, exhaustion, and an honesty across her face that she’d made no effort to turn into something more impressive.
Plain felt wrong, now.
There was nothing plain about a woman who’d stood before an armed killer covered in blood and asked if he needed help. She’d been scared. I had smelled the fear on her, heard the change in her breathing, watched her fingers tighten on her sleeve.
She cared anyway.
