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I wipe my palms down the sides of my jeans and force a nod. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

The moment Perry turns, a ripple runs through the room. Erin lets out a low whistle. Someone else murmurs, “That good, huh?”

“She’s getting summoned,” another voice says, teasing but not unkind.

They think it’s about the show. That he’s calling me up to compliment me, maybe offer some quiet, boss-level praise before opening night. And I let them think that, because the truth is—I have no idea what this is about. And that not knowing gnaws at me far more than any whispered joke.

I roll my eyes for show, throw them a lopsided smirk, and turn toward the stairs.

But the second my back is to them, the smile drops. My nerves spike.

Malachi doesn’t summon people lightly.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, I brace myself.

Whatever he wants, it can’t be worse than the thousand thoughts clawing around in my chest.

Right?

ChapterEighteen

MALACHI

She moves like a force of nature.

I watch Blake from my office window as she commands the stage below, her voice carrying clear and confident despite her obvious exhaustion. The dancers respond to her direction instantly—a testament to how quickly she’s earned their respect. Even from this height, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips that clipboard like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

The final rehearsal was flawless. Better than I’d dared hope when I first conceived of transforming this space into something between a burlesque club and a high-end theater. Every transition smooth, every gesture precise, the music and lighting perfectly orchestrated. And at the center of it all—Blake. My Blake.

Except she’s not mine. Not really.

The thought sears. An echo of heat flares in my jaw, sharp enough that my fangs threaten to descend. I force them back, grinding down the urge with a slow breath and a flick of my tongue across my back teeth. Below, she shifts, brushing hair off her cheek with the back of her hand. Her blouse flutters with the movement—violet, like her hair, like defiance spun into fabric. She is calm chaos, all control and cracks just beneath the surface. And I need?—

No. Need isn’t the right word.

I ache for her.

Not just her skin. Her fire. Her stubborn spine and the way she smiles sideways when she’s trying not to let anyone see she’s proud. Her daughter’s smile, inherited, worn like armor. I remember the way Charlie reached for Joséphine’s hand that morning, confident and unafraid. Trusting. Like Blake had passed down her fire with the same casual grace she passes off her coffee order.

I would die for either of them. And I would kill for both.

When Perry steps forward to speak to her, I see her posture shift. She’s on alert. Not afraid, but preparing. And when she turns for the stairs without glancing up—I know she’s bracing herself for me.

Good.

She should.

I move to my desk, rolling my sleeves and adjusting my cuffs—a habit I haven’t broken since my breathing days. The gesture calms me. Reminds me that I still have control. That I am not an animal pacing a cage while someone stalks the child I never had but already claim in my mind.

The gift box is in the drawer. Untouched since I retrieved it. Kit’s scent still clings to it—masked, diluted, but present. That synthetic orange blossom he always favored layered over the base notes of wolf musk and rot. I lift it onto the desk, the weight of it setting something loose and dangerous in my chest.

Kasar reported last night that Kit slipped his tail. Again. He’s tracking him personally now, staying closer, closer than we’ve dared before.

Too late, apparently.

A knock. Three soft taps at my open door.

Her heartbeat is steady, but I can smell her hesitation through the door.