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And then there’s me, dead center of a spiraling cosmic fuck-up, sandwiched between Too Quiet and Too Hot to Be Trusted.

“No,” I repeat, because that word is the only holy thing left in my vocabulary. “He’s not coming into the house. He’s not even stepping on theporch.We have rules. Ward lines. Social boundaries. I will physically resurrect the concept ofa restraining orderif I have to.”

Theo glances over, amused. “Still talking. Still adorable. Stillcompletely unthreatening.”

I gasp like he slapped me with a scented glove. “Lucien, I swear, if you don’t smite him right now, I’m calling Riven.”

“Don’t call Riven,” Lucien mutters, running a hand down his face like this entire situation is aging him in god-years. “Riven will end him, and then we’ll have a different problem.”

“Better than this problem! This problemsmirks! This problem looks like he sells perfume and corrupted church girls for sport!”

Theo winks at me. “Ihavesold perfume.”

“Shut. UP.”

Luna’s pace doesn’t falter, but I catch the way her fingers curl. She’s vibrating with the kind of rage that usually precedes earthquakes or orgasms, and knowing her, it could be either.

I jog up beside her, lowering my voice even though I want to scream. “Please tell me this is temporary. Please tell me Blackwell brought him here to, like, power-wash the cathedral and then exile him again. Or neuter him. I’d settle for that.”

She doesn’t look at me. “He’s here to bond.”

I stop walking. Dead stop. I stand there. On the sun-warmed path Orin enchanted last year, surrounded by too many flowers and not enoughreason.

“Bond,” I say, to the empty summer air. “Bond. Withher.”

Then I scream. Not a dramatic wail. Not a cry of sorrow. No. This is a full-bodied, arms-flailingrage screechstraight from my soul. A primal sound of a man who just realized the universe has lost its plot.

From the hill ahead, I hear Theo call cheerfully, “Love you too, Silas.”

I turn slowly toward the house.

He’s coming into our home. Desire incarnate. Uninvited. Unwanted. Unrelenting. Andgods fucking help us, he thinks it’sfunny.

I catch up. I shouldn't, I should let Lucien handle this, or wait until Riven finds out and lets the violence flow like vintage wine, but I don’t. Ican’t.

My legs move before my brain gives them permission, rage carried on chaos, the one constant I can always count on:me being wildly, recklessly extra.

Theo's just a few steps from the courtyard now, hands in his pockets, head tilted back like he's admiring the skyline like it belongs to him. He doesn’t even flinch when I get in front of him. Just halts. Looks down at me like I’m a minor interruption in his day. Like I’m not worthanything.

I smile.

“Stop walking.”

His brows lift. He glances past me, at the house behind me, like I’m a potted plant he might accidentally trip over. “Why? You gonna blow glitter at me and hope I dissolve?”

“You’re not coming inside,” I say, and the words aren’t funny anymore. “This house isn’t yours. She’s not yours. You’re notone of us.”

He studies me for a beat. Then he grins. That infuriating, hip-cocked, pretty-boy-who-burns-down-kingdoms grin.

“Oh, Silas,” he drawls, stepping forward until we’re chest to chest, his voice dipped in syrup and sin. “You still think this is a democracy. That’s cute.”

My laugh snaps out, brittle. “No. I think it's a fucking war. And I'm the wildcard.”

He tilts his head, almost impressed. “You always were the loudest, weren’t you? The clown. The chaos. The comic relief.”

“Say comic relief again,” I murmur, smiling sweetly, “and I’ll shove a banana in your tailpipe and charm it to explode.”

He leans in, close enough that I can smell the smoke and spice on his breath. “Still desperate to be important.”