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He sobers instantly, which is maybe the worst part. When Silas gets serious, it means something has already gone to hell.

“They’re scared, Lu,” he says. “But they’re aiming it at the wrong thing.”

“Me.”

“No. Him. But it’s showing up in all the wrong places. Like your ribs. Your throat. Your fucking sanity.”

He hesitates, then tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. No smirk. No wink. Just that strange, broken reverence he slips into when he forgets to be chaos incarnate.

“They love you so much it makes them stupid.”

“I’m not theirs to cage,” I whisper.

“Damn right you’re not,” he says, eyes sharp now, electric. “You’re yours. Andtheyknow that. They just forgot how to show it.”

I nod, even if the knot in my chest doesn’t loosen.

He offers a hand like a magician mid-trick, palm up.

“Wanna go fill the hot tub with shaving cream and blame it on Elias?”

I blink and smile.

“Gods, yes.”

We raid the hallway closet like criminals. Silas cracks it open with the delicacy of a jewel thief and the dramatics of a man who’s only ever known escalation. He peers inside like the contents might detonate.

“Okay,” he whispers, yanking out a half-empty can of shaving cream, a mesh laundry bag, a roll of silver duct tape, and, for some godforsaken reason, a bag of glitter shaped like tiny serpents. “Phase one: acquire more foam. This,” he says, shaking the can and frowning at the limp sputter, “isn’t going to cover a corpse, let alone a hot tub.”

“We’re not covering a corpse, Silas.”

He tilts his head. “...Are you sure?”

“I’m not helping you hide bodies tonight.”

“Tonight,” he echoes, filing that away like it’s a negotiable clause. “Fine. But for future reference, your refusal is noted.”

The next ten minutes are chaos in hushed tones and creaky cabinets. He insists I carry “the distraction bag” while he hoards the foam. I try to ask what’s in it, and he says, “Hope and malice.” I don’t ask again.

We sneak down the back staircase. Silas insists on this route like we’re avoiding infrared sensors instead of a household full of seven emotionally compromised immortal men.

“Left,” he whisper-yells as we hit the kitchen. “Left! Other left, gods, Luna, do youevenknow how to flee domestic surveillance?”

“I’m notfleeing. I’m sneaking.”

He stops, whirls dramatically, and presses a hand to my chest. “Darling, if you’re withme, it’s fleeing. The line between ‘sneaky’ and ‘catastrophic’ is measured in glitter and intention.”

We shove through the mudroom and out the back door, feet crunching across gravel as the summer night wraps around us, humid, thick with honeysuckle and something deeper underneath, something old. The hot tub sits in its usual spot, nestled into the back edge of the patio like a shrine to luxury and poor decisions. It glows faintly blue, soft light pulsing through steam like it’s summoning sirens.

Silas drops to his knees like a soldier returned to his battlefield.

“Go time,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “I pour, you narrate.”

“I what?”

“Keep watch and provide color commentary. This is a heist, Luna. I need support.”

I crouch beside him, glancing toward the edge of the yard, half expecting Lucien to descend from the rooftop like wrath incarnate.