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I held out my arms. “Nothing.”

Her lips pursed and she stormed off.

I grinned.

She could be as pissed as she wanted at me if it made her walk like that. The same pain flared into my chest, but more of an ache than a full punch to the solar plexus. Frowning, I wondered what that was about. I’d done what Diana wanted and hired the chit, hadn’t I? Perhaps there was something deeper at play?

I was overdue to visit my eldest brother anyway. I could ask his opinion, and maybe con another one of my brothers into helping me meet my quota.

As I sat back behind my desk, I realized I didn't even know the new girl’s name.

Maybe that’s why she’s pissed.

Oh well. I was Lust; if I learned everyone’s name, nothing would ever get done.

I smashed the button on my intercom. “Marguerite, I’m taking an extended lunch.”

I didn’t wait for an answer before I shifted away, the world around me dissolving into nothing.

Chapter

Six

JUNIPER

Spring petals drifted beneath my feet as I followed Diana down the winding garden path that led across her estate toward the guest cottage. Unlike my clumsy gait, she seemed to float above the scattered blossoms, her movements fluid in a way that made my neck prickle. Late afternoon sun filtered through newly budding branches, casting dappled light across our path.

"I must admit," Diana said, glancing back at me, "I haven't had anyone stay here in ages. Took me all morning just to air it out properly." Her laugh carried on the breeze like wind chimes. "My work keeps me surrounded by people most days, so I tend to guard my private time. But the cottage deserves some life in it." She paused, then added with casual grace, "And don't worry about rent or anything of that nature—we can sort that out once you're settled at the agency."

She glided through the fallen leaves like gravity was optional, and I tried to squash down my instinct to pick apart every word she said. After all, less than twenty-four hours ago, I'd trusted someone I'd known my whole life and ended up in ashallow grave. That was bound to make me jumpy. And now, I was following a stranger who moved like a dream and spoke in riddles.

But what choice did I have? It was either trust the mysterious Diana, or try my luck with no money, no ID, and a pack of wolves potentially hunting me. Sometimes you had to pick the devil you didn't know.

The path curved around an ancient oak, and there it stood—a cottage that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. Weathered stone walls rose from beds of wild mint and early daffodils, while stubborn wisteria claimed one entire corner in cascades of purple blooms. Mullioned windows caught the dying sunlight like jewels, and a heavy wooden door, painted sage green, stood beneath a peaked roof of moss-darkened slate. Something about it pulled at me, like a half-remembered dream.

Diana pulled out a brass key that seemed to dance with its own light.

"Fair warning. It smells like I murdered every lemon in a ten-mile radius. Cleaning supplies," she explained, working the lock.

I jerked a bit at the imagery, considering the recent attempt on my own life. She didn’t appear to catch it, continuing on.

A flash of deep purple rippled in the air around Diana as she worked the lock—like heat waves but wrong. I blinked hard, chalking it up to stress, lack of sleep, and you know, the whole being buried alive thing. When I looked again, there was just Diana, elegant and impossible as ever.

The door swung open without a sound, releasing a wave of lemon-scented air mixed with something earthier—dried herbs and old wood and the faint sweetness of lavender. The interior was a study in organized chaos: exposed wooden beams crossed a white-painted ceiling, while built-in shelves lined every available wall space. A stone fireplace dominated one wall,flanked by mismatched but comfortable-looking furniture that somehow worked together perfectly.

"It's not the Ritz," Diana said, gesturing to the living area. "But the desk gets a killer morning light if you're one of those disgusting morning people."

I barely heard her. The kitchen had my full attention. It was smaller than my old one, but efficiently laid out with butcher-block counters and open shelving displaying an impressive collection of copper pots. They could have been twins to mine, right down to the way they caught the light. But the dents were wrong–these had different battle scars.

My heart did a weird little stutter. Three days ago, the man I'd loved had buried me in the woods, and here I was, getting emotional over cookware. I forced my breathing to steady, pushed the memory down where it belonged. I could fall apart later.

Diana breezed past my obvious shock, opening a cabinet that looked like she'd raided a specialty tea shop. Dozens of tins and jars lined the shelves in neat rows.

"I might have a slight tea problem," she admitted. "The good stuff's in here." She tapped a drawer with a wink that definitely wasn't suspicious at all.

My eyes drifted up to the rafters, where herbs hung in neat bundles–sage, thyme, rosemary, and others I couldn't immediately identify. Just like I used to...No. Not going there.

A reading nook tucked into the corner window saved me from that particular pit of memories. The worn leather armchair was perfectly positioned for keeping an eye on both the garden and the approach to the cottage. Not that I was paranoid or anything.