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He went quiet.

“I’m okay,” I said, softer this time.

His throat moved. “I know.”

“I’ll text you when I’m home,” I said, just to give him something. “Night,” I said.

“Night, Liv.” The streetlight flickered above us as a hover tram rattled overhead.

I left him there under the alley light and walked home alone. My neck itched with that same weird irritation under my skin with every step.

Stress. Cheap detergent. A curse from the oat milk guy.

Any of those would have been better than the truth.

I was replaying my favorite scene from my book in my head—the one where the general finally stopped being emotionally constipated and admitted he was in love while bleeding out in the heroine’s lap—when I turned onto my street.

My building looked the same as always. Crooked blue door. Cracked brick. Flickering hallway light visible through the grimy front window. Harlow Street trying its best to be forgettable.

The ward ruined that.

It sat carved into the doorframe, dark lines sunk deep into the blue paint, humming under my skin before I even touched the steps.

I stopped with my key in my hand.

The ward meant something. I knew it did. People did not carve power like that into random doorframes because they felt crafty at midnight.

For one stupid second, I thought about my coworkers and their glowing mate marks. Sam and Daniel, nauseating and soft. Mandi’s stories about demons who tore cities apart for their mates.

Maybe it was time to stop waiting.

I was almost thirty. My teenage certainty that I’d be mated by twenty-two had aged into comedy. Maybe there was no click waiting for me. Maybe there was no destined person to see me once and know. Maybe casual was what people like me got. Something smaller. Manageable. A man who liked me enough to walk me home and text before bed.

A safe man.

A blond, broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and a terrible hazelnut latte habit.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment smelled like dust, old tea, and something else? Something sweet.

I froze.

A garden rose sat on my kitchen table. Deep red, almost black at the edges, standing in a narrow black vase that had not been there this morning.

My bag slid off my shoulder and hit the floor.

“Nope,” I said.

My voice sounded tiny.

The ward had been outside.

The rose was inside.

Someone had been inside my apartment.

My body caught up all at once. Heart slamming. Mouth dry. Every shadow in the room now menacing. I slotted my keys between my fingers like that would help against a demon who treated locked doors like gentle suggestions.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. We’re leaving.”