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For her. For Ophelia.

Philippe, Marcus, and I were all forged in the same fire. Though our paths have taken their own winding routes from the time of that forging, I know them and they know me. Because of it, I don’t underestimate them. Not for a single moment.

The idea of Ophelia being unprotected in their crosshairs is unacceptable. And though I don’t doubt her capability, or my capacity to handle whatever scheming they’re up to, nor can I deny my deep sense of relief that I got to her before they did.

Whether or not she likes it, Ophelia’s with me now.

“We’ll go in with our cover story. Two lovers who’ve reconnected after so many years apart.”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Like anyone will believe that.”

“Why wouldn’t they? Cassandra was on the roof that night, was she not? And Marcus? The two of them no doubt remember what they walked into, and will draw their own assumptions about what it meant.”

The words are a mistake.

As soon as they’re spoken, Ophelia’s expression shutters completely. She looks down, avoiding my gaze, and I’d reach out and grab back the memory of that night if I could.

“Ophelia, I—”

“No.” Her voice is cool, clipped, all professionalism as she recovers quickly. “No, you’re right. It’s a good cover. It’ll at least explain why the hell I’m there with you, when all I’ve been met with are closed doors and dead ends. I don’t exactly have your kind of sway in this city.”

The unease in my chest twists again.

She’s not incorrect.

Though I’ve distanced myself from the coven Philippe and Marcus have built here in Boston, the tangled threads of our past still loom over the centuries of our shared existence. It was no accident I ended up here, too, when I finally settled somewhere, in this place with its rich tapestry of paranormal folk and some faint echoes of the lives we left on the other side of the Atlantic.

It was also no accident I did so partly to keep an eye on them, to remind them about the scales that balance the power between us, and whose favor they’ve always tipped in.

“Ophelia,” I try again. “What happened back then wasn’t—”

“It’s fine.” She shakes her head, and I try not to bristle at the interruption. “As long as we’re getting the answers we need, it doesn’t matter.”

If she would only listen, give me a chance to explain that I’ve put what happened that night out of my mind, that I won’t hold it against her or let it prevent us from—

“Ten o’clock tomorrow, then?” she presses on. “I’ll meet you fifteen minutes early, in the alley down the street from the Raven. Between the book store and bakery. Brick wall. Ivy. You can’t miss it.”

I study her for a few moments before I answer.

The past and present meet in all the gentle angles of her beautiful face, changed with time but still as alluring now as they were then. In full lips twisted into a tight, mistrusting frown, in warm brown eyes still skeptical as she takes my measure just as intently as I take hers. In posture tight and defensive, rather than the loose, trusting way she once melted against me on a rooftop under the stars.

And in her scent.

As the silent seconds stretch between us, so do all the strands of that maddeningly unforgettable essence. Still enough to make my fangs tingle and my throat ache like I’ve gone centuries without a drop to drink. Still enough to make me imagine sinking my hand into that mass of lush curls and exposing the long graceful column of her neck, getting close enough to mark the pulse in her veins and to finally, finally indulge in the temptation that’s never fully left me, not even all these years later.

But we’re not here for that.

Cover story or not, we’re here to serve the Bureau’s interests, to make good on the promises we gave to Blair and Cleo.

For all I know, Ophelia may have another lover somewhere. Perhaps a vampire not so set against giving a human his bloodbond.

Swallowing the wave of prickling, unwarranted jealousy the thought evokes, I nod.

“I know the spot, and I will meet you there.”

“Fine. See you then.”

Ophelia turns and goes, our business concluded.