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S elene woke tangled in sheets.

She groaned, pressing a hand to her throbbing temple. Dio … There was a soft breath. Her head whipped around and the world spun dangerously. Asleep beside her, Jules hugged one of her feather pillows to his naked chest.

Carefully sitting up, she glanced at the water she’d set beside his bed. It was drained. Maybe he wouldn’t have a splitting headache to show for their evening together.

Then she froze like a startled rabbit. Had he woken up and seen her ?

Selene rubbed her temples, and the laundered cotton rustled when she moved. She was still wearing his shirt and not much else. Searching her bleary mind, she remembered the order of events—drinking, questions, explaining things that would keep him alive, and him getting so distracted halfway through undressing that she had declared that if he wouldn’t wear his shirt, she would. She dropped her forehead into her hand and peeked through her fingers at Jules.

Lines were blurring. And that was something she couldn’t allow. The kiss had been a farce. She knew that. So why did it make it so much easier to picture him in her bed for different reasons than late-night drinking games? Today she’d figure out where he could stay. No sooner had she decided than she reconsidered, the thought of sending him alone into the Vatican left her cold. Looking at him now, soft and pliant in sleep, it was far easier to believe they were almost the same age.

All his sharp angles came from neglect and war, rather than training like hers. Beneath it all, he hid an incredible gentleness. She’d seen it when he’d risked his life for a child. She’d seen it again last night when he knew the right questions to ask to prise away her armour.

Tentatively she reached out to push a lock of hair off his brow, brushing the backs of her fingers against his forehead to feel the heat of his skin. He could be hard, even cruel. And sometimes he used his humour to wound. He enjoyed taunting her with cold one-liners and half-formed smirks. But now …

His lashes fluttered and he mumbled something against the pillow.

She yanked her hand back and his hair flopped against his brow once more. What was she doing? Jules Lacroix wasn’t a lost puppy. He was a dangerous weapon. He’d proven as much when he’d shown her the kill marks swirling across his skin. It didn’t matter how charming he could be; nobody survived a fight to the death with as many demons as he’d killed without their own dark side. And he was a weapon with invisible threads binding him to Baliel. An unparalleled threat to Rome. First and greatest of the demon dukes. Selene could not allow herself to feel anything for Jules. Not until she knew who he really was.

The only reason he was here at all was because for every one of his hard angles, she could show him one of hers . Each honed to a razor edge. She wanted him for her purposes, but if she didn’t know she could control him, she would never have risked inviting him into the heart of Rome. But, despite everything, she liked him. Dio . When had her feelings become so inconvenient? Another thing was true too. Cesare was a threat she would protect Jules from so long as he was useful to her.

Crossing the room, she leaned her temple against the window-pane, hoping the chill would seep beneath her skin and calm the heat that still flushed her cheeks. Beyond the glass, Rome was quiet. Quiet as she ever was in those moments before dawn, basilicas and domes illuminated in autumnal hues that fought off the night. It was an illusion , this quiet, this … safety . Because, for the first time in a hundred years or more, Baliel, the first and greatest of the demon dukes, was making his slow, dreadful way toward Rome.

It was an illusion the Vatican lovingly cultivated, paying the price to subdue demons wherever they appeared. Humans were adaptable creatures. Despite the incursions into their world—despite the death—they had achieved a balance in Rome. A tithe paid in blood. It was a lie that was already cracking around the edges, but if anyone could finally shatter the illusion of safety in Rome, it would be Baliel.

There would not be blood enough in all Rome to pay Baliel off. Even if the wards kept him at bay, they weren’t infallible. He would get in, and when he did he was powerful enough to wreak all kinds of chaos before they could stop him.

The sky opened and rain streaked the glass, taunting her with the echo of a moment she’d rather forget.

She was glad to be home. She was .

But Rome held within her cobbled streets so many painful memories—they weren’t always so sharp and near to the surface, but they waited within touching distance. She remembered the freezing rain. It had run in rivulets across her skin as she mounted the steps to the Imperium Bellum’s dais. The petrichor scent of cold rain on warm stones had been thick in the air.

She’d fallen to her knees in front of the Imperium.

He’d watched her, bemused.

Behind his shoulder, his bodyguards had stood poised. The woman, Ginevra, towering over six feet tall, was one of Selene’s instructors at the Academy. Now she watched Selene with a look so cold, intent to kill. Selene knew she’d find no kindness there.

Only a year later, Ginevra had expired—lost to the dark magic in her blood. She had been cut down in a mercy killing by Mirco, the man who loomed at the Imperium’s left hand.

Black as polished walnut wood, Mirco’s bald head shone under the lantern light. He hadn’t moved since her approach, observing her sagely from beneath lowered brows.

One wrong move and she’d be dead eleven different ways. Ginevra and Mirco were the pinnacle of what an exorcist could be, and despite the trauma of the night, she remembered thinking that she wanted nothing more than to be like them. Even if it damned her family. Even if it ruined her name.

She bent her head and shouted to be heard above the drumbeat of falling rain and the thunder of her own heart crashing against the cage of her ribs. She shouted of treason, shouted of betrayal. At barely eleven years old, Selene had sacrificed that which was irreplaceable—her family .

‘Imperium, ignosce me. And forgive the sins of my father. May God have mercy on his soul.’

‘He will not.’

Cesare Alleva stood. And if Ginevra was six feet, he was taller still, and feared for more than his title. Lord of War. Natural head of the Vatican Order and Prince of the Church. The marble steps seemed to tremble as he descended toward her.

She bowed her head further, hoping he wouldn’t see the rogue tears streaking her cheeks. Even though she’d had every reason to reveal what her father had done, she couldn’t smother the agony of knowing what her father’s future held.

Her father was as good as dead. Her family might still be saved.

Selene was an exorcist in training; she believed in the justness of the Vatican’s choices. If they said she was guilty by association, she would bare her neck for the executioner. If they took her family for her father’s crimes, she would accept it. But she would not stand idly waiting. She’d fight until her last breath to save those she could. ‘Please, I beg you, forgive my mother and brother. They shouldn’t be punished for my father’s sins. Please, uncle.’

He was silent and she dared glance at him.

He stroked his chin with a thumb. ‘Because of your loyalty and in … acknowledgement … of my brother’s past endeavours for the empire, I’ll spare his wife and son. They will live out the remainder of their lives exiled from Rome.’

She held her breath. He sounded as though he’d say more.

Maybe …?

‘But I can do nothing for Matteo.’ His words crashed over her. ‘He’ll be crucified at dawn.’

Death . And, for her, exile.

Selene closed her eyes against the words.

So ended her ambition. The Academy in Rome was all but the only path to the blood—becoming an exorcist was beyond her reach now. The Imperium gently lifted her chin. In the depths of his eyes she saw the same grief she felt. ‘You’ll join my household. I’ve already heard great things about your talent, Selene. We need exorcists like the one you’ll become.’

And despite the chasm in her chest his words had lit a flame of warmth inside her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep, steadying breath. Now was not the time to lose her composure.

Nor could she afford to underestimate her enemy.

Jules shifted in the bed behind her. She turned to see the curve of a bicep, the tousled mop of sleep-mussed hair.

He is not a puppy , she reminded herself. Jules was a soldier . He’d seen things she could only imagine. And he’d lost people too.

Before her mind flinched away, she saw Benedetta’s lightbulb smile. Then she saw her sightless eyes. The image was there and gone again before she could dismiss it. Sickness twisted her gut.

War was the same. Boys and girls thrust into battle against demons with little more than a flimsy spelled blade. They never stood a chance. She couldn’t even remember if conscripts were trained before being dropped into the trenches.

She showered, letting the steam fill the bathroom until condensation trickled down the forest-green tiles.

By the time she finished, Jules still hadn’t woken. He’d rolled himself into the middle of her enormous bed, burying himself in feather pillows.

Taking a steadying breath, she tiptoed over to him. Plush jewel-toned rugs covered the herringbone oak. The rich silken strands swallowed her footsteps.

He had one arm flung over his face.

She shook his shoulder, trying to ignore the heat of his skin. It seemed to scald her where it stretched hot and taut over defined muscles. She felt raised scar tissue against her palm and grazed her thumb over a long-healed bullet wound just below his collarbone. Absently she traced her thumb over it again. How many scars could one boy have?

He shifted, and when she looked, his eyes were open and unreadable. She drew back, rubbing the heel of her hand against her thigh.

‘Morning.’

He pushed himself languidly to one elbow, a dark brow edging up. She couldn’t decipher the look.

‘What?’ she demanded. Heat rose in her cheeks.

But when Jules lightly touched her wrist, all thoughts flew from her mind. He drew her hand close, letting her fingers brush the bullet wound again. He was still heavy-lidded with sleep, one foot still firmly in his dreams.

She shifted closer, tracing the hard line of his shoulder blade to find the healed exit wound. With a delicate fingertip, she measured the difference between life and death. It had exited his left shoulder, missing his heart.

‘You were lucky,’ she commented softly, not really meaning him to hear.

He smiled, dropping his head so his hair fell around his face. ‘I was fast.’

Selene scoffed and pushed him back an inch with her fingers spread against his chest. She narrowed her eyes as she looked into his. ‘Nonsense. Nobody’s that fast.’

Jules’s smile tipped higher on one side, showing a flash of teeth before he yawned widely. She covered his mouth with her hand and he blinked, shaking himself awake as he pulled away from her. ‘Whatever you say, exorcist. You’re the expert.’

Jules smirked to himself, rolling so he could press his face tight into the pillow to yawn against the cotton. His biceps shifted with the languid motion and she moved off the bed, taking a few long steps back. On his bicep was yet another scar. Brambles like delicate calligraphy twisting and snagging across his skin.

She checked her watch to avoid looking at him. ‘Get up. We’ve things to do.’ She reached for the D’Alessandro blades strung from his belt over her bedpost and tossed them on the covers between them, a clear dividing line. Do not cross . ‘I’m taking you to the dark side of Rome tonight. You’ll need those. From what I read, you’re good with a blade.’

Jules was fully awake now, his hand fisting in the sheets to pull them aside.

The swords thumped heavily to the ground. Line. Crossed.

She took an involuntary step back, putting more distance between them. ‘I read your war record and the desertion report they prepared. It said that even though you earned gun rights with your most recent promotion, Corporal Lacroix, you still preferred to fight with your exorcist-forged blade. Forty kills to a sword—impressive, most would be lucky to outlast their weapon—’

Jules’s green eyes lost their warmth. ‘ Fifty .’

‘Pardon?’

‘Fifty kills. One sigil per ten kills. Five sigils per blade. Fifty kills. Believe me, I’d remember. Miscalculate and you’ve got a broken blade and an angry demon who just watched you kill a buddy.’

Her lashes lowered in admission. He stalked across the room, throwing open his case. The powerful muscles in his back flexed. He pulled out a shirt and reached inside for something she couldn’t see.

‘I know, you know.’ She was surprised by the gentleness of her own voice. He half turned to face her, a notebook in his hand. ‘You were a valiant soldier. Your superior, Sergeant Bachelet, spoke highly of you.’

His face paled, his expression devoid of the usual spark that lit his eyes. She desperately wanted to take back whatever she’d said wrong. ‘Jules—’ It was the first time she’d said his name instead of Lacroix. It felt different on her tongue, rounder than the sharp angles of his surname.

‘ Don’t .’ He dropped his face into one hand, staring blankly through his fingers.

Selene bit her lip and left without another word. Once the bedroom door shut behind her, she slid down the wall and dropped her forehead against her knees. There was near silence from inside the room and she tried to convince herself that was all she heard.

Silence . But that would be a lie.

Instead, she heard the muffled sound of Jules crying.

Later, a knock came at her door.

Finally . Only liquid espresso direct to her veins could set the day on track. She needed it as dearly as she needed her next breath.

But before she could move, the double doors swung open. The visitor was not, in fact, the catering staff. Her uncle raised one dark brow, observing her position on the herringbone floor. This was not Cesare Alleva, uncle, this was the Imperium Bellum at her door, dressed in his vestments of power, flanked by his latest bodyguards.

‘Lovers’ quarrel?’

Wordlessly she scrambled to her feet, spine stiffening at his unexpected presence. Before she could think of anything to say, the bedroom doors behind her opened, and Jules stepped through. He reached for her, one large hand spread over her hip. ‘Of course not.’ His voice carried a touch of insolence.

Selene swallowed.

Jules folded into a low, exaggerated bow. ‘Imperium Bellum.’

His shirt was open, showing a stretch of smooth tanned chest while managing to hide the marks on his arms. Scars where Eliot would have none.

‘Eliot,’ said her uncle finally.

Cesare’s dark eyes slid to his exorcists, the look enough to have them backing up to position themselves outside the door. He stepped around Jules, pausing on his way to the armchair, his eyes following a trail of discarded clothing through the double doors to her bedroom.

The corner of Jules’s lips tugged up in a crooked smirk.

Dio . That look boded very ill indeed.