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Chapter Twenty-One

LUCIEN

Isadora’s footsteps echoed behind me, the heels of her new boots tapping against each step. Her hand gripped mine tightly, her fingers curled around my own. That told me two things: she was nervous, but not afraid. If she was afraid, she would’ve let go. Or her pace would have slowed.

Instead, she clung to me like I was her lifeline.

And I loved it. Loved the feeling of being needed for once, rather than reviled.

I understood why she was nervous. A century was a long time, during which she’d only been with her mate. Most likely, she was wondering what I expected from her, or maybe even wondering what she expected from herself.

She didn’t need to fret, though. For her, I would take my time. Move at her pace.

Because Isadora was nothing like the other women I’d bedded. Those women had known my limits and what little time I could offer them. And afterward, none had ever begged me to stick around. They’d gotten what they’d wanted: a night with me.

And not because I was this amazing creature in bed. Hardly. I was arrogant, but not that arrogant.

They’d simply wanted a story. To be able to tell people they’d slept with the St. Germain heir. It’d bothered me at first, back in my younger days. But I’d eventually learned to brush the sting aside and simply enjoy what they had to offer. We’d both had needs and fulfilled them for each other.

But Isadora wasn’t interested in that. She wanted more than the St. Germain heir. She wanted me , or so I hoped.

Thanks to Thorne, Isadora had likely heard a hundred reasons why she shouldn’t enter into a relationship with me. And yet, here she was, still holding my hand.

The last stair creaked under my weight as we reached the loft. I paused at the threshold, giving Isadora time to make her choice. Would she stay or would she retreat back downstairs?

After a long moment, her fingers slipped free from mine, and she entered her loft.

I followed slowly, taking in the changes since my last visit.

She’d cleaned up the shattered glass and the dust. She’d removed the shredded garments and ruined suitcase.

Her shredded mattress still sat in the room, though she’d had the sense to flip it over, hiding the damage.

She’d need a new one eventually, but I imagined there was nothing she could do about that for the time being.

Her loft resembled a home now. Imperfect, but comfortable.

I caught sight of her open closet, now brimming with actual clothing. A small smile rose to my lips. I loathed the Wolfe family on principle, but seeing how Thorne cared for Isadora soothed a bit of my vitriol. Not that I’d ever admit that aloud. I’d rather someone drove a stake through my chest.

“I’m hoping to buy a new bed soon,” Isadora said.

The second she spoke, the bathroom door exploded open with a bang that had me stepping in front of Isadora, then whirling around.

A deep, guttural growl rumbled from inside a dark, attached bathroom—low, wet, and decidedly unholy. The snarl continued, and it sounded like someone was forcing a demon down a sewer drain.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Isadora murmured behind me.

“What,” I asked carefully, “was that?”

When she didn’t immediately respond, I glanced over my shoulder.

Isadora crossed her arms and sighed, as though the hair-raising noises coming from what appeared to be a bathroom were merely an inconvenient draft and not the howling of some ancient, pipe-dwelling entity.

“That would be the toilet,” she said, sighing.

“The…toilet?”

“Yes. I have a toilet demon,” she stated matter-of-factly.

I blinked. A what?

She said nothing further.

A second groan rattled the entire upper floor plumbing, louder this time. Almost petulant. Something dark whisked across the room. I couldn’t tell if it was a shadow or mist or something worse. But no way I would allow Isadora to share a room with…whatever that was.

“Izzy?” Thorne called up.

“It’s fine!” she shouted down. “It’s just the toilet. Again.”

“Aha,” Thorne murmured. Clearly, she knew all about this situation. I retracted my inner statement of how well she took care of Isadora. No one who cared about her would allow her to cohabitate with such a creature.

“Guess all the sage burning didn’t work,” Isadora commented.

Sage burnings. Compliments of the Ravenspells, I was sure.

Another sound echoed—this time a gurgle, like a sea monster gargling in Latin.

“I think…is it trying to say something?” I asked.

“Yeah, don’t listen to it,” she said, already moving across the room. “Last time it spoke to me, it told me things.”

I raised a brow. “What kind of things?”

She leveled me with a flat look. “Things a toilet shouldn’t know.”

I strode across the room, but the second I came within a foot of the bathroom, the door slammed shut, the hinges rattling.

“Oh, knock it off,” Isadora barked at it.

The pipes went silent for a moment, and then the whispering began. It was low at first, barely audible. I took another step closer to the door, and the murmur sharpened. The words weren’t comprehensible, but I understood the intent.

The voice—if it could be called that—sounded like it had teeth. Jagged, wet ones. It whispered furiously, its tone utterly violent and untrustworthy. This ghost, demon, whatever, was nothing like Bernard downstairs.

“Yes, well, that’s enough of that,” I murmured. I reached into my pocket and withdrew my phone.

“What are you doing?” Isadora asked, creeping closer.

“Resolving this. You need to be able to sleep without some specter whispering in your ear.”

I pulled up a contact from a list I hardly used and pressed dial.

“Ravenspell,” Isadora murmured. Her eyes shot up to mine. “You have a Ravenspell saved to your contacts? I thought your family hated them?”

And they us. They would charge me two or three times their regular fee simply because of my last name—and the longstanding feud between our families—but sometimes, there were issues only a witch could resolve.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

Then, with a faint hint of static, a voice answered. “Mm?”

“Hello, Selene,” I said. If she didn’t have caller-ID, I knew she’d recognize my voice.

A long pause. Then she took a very deliberate sip of what I suspected was tea. Or liquid spite.

“To what do I owe the discomfort?” drawled the witch on the other end.

Regardless of my personal feelings about the Ravenspells, they did make me laugh occasionally. And this was one of those moments.

“I am in need of your services.”

“What services could you possibly need from me?” Selene practically purred on the other end. I could only imagine the dollar signs flitting through her head.

“My…” I paused. I didn’t know how to address Isadora. Finally, I settled with, “companion has a demon residing in her toilet.”

Silence. And then, horrifyingly, a small laugh. “Well. That’s new.”

“I want it gone.”

“And you think I can handle this task of yours?”

Truly, no one else could. I held my tongue. I would never compliment a Ravenspell. Not even with my dying breath.

“Fine,” Selene finally said when I didn’t answer. “Send me the address.”

“It’s Hank Corvus’ old place.”

Selene gave a throaty chuckle. “Delightful. I’ll be there within an hour. And Lucien?”

I paused.

“Have your checkbook ready.”

Of course. I rolled my eyes, then disconnected the call and slid my phone back into my pocket.

“Selene Ravenspell is on her way,” I announced, raising my voice just slightly—enough for the toilet to hear what I had to say. “She’ll be here within the hour to exorcise whatever malevolent filth is festering in there.”

That got a reaction. A bold one, too.

The bathroom door flew open so violently, it bounced off the wall and rebounded shut again. It repeated the process—open, slam, open, slam—faster and faster, until the hinges practically squealed in protest and the knob spun like it might rattle right off the door.

Then came the water.

A sharp, wet sploosh burst up from beneath the toilet lid, and a stream of foul-smelling liquid geysered across the floor in a wide arc. It soaked the rotted bathmat, pooled under the door, and shot out into the loft.

Isadora yelped and jumped back.

I, however, did not move.

I simply adjusted my cuffs, then stared at the door.

“That’s quite enough,” I said coolly, stepping forward. “Unless you’d prefer I line the entire toilet with iron-blessed salt and watch you gag on it for the next decade.”

The door gave a final twitch, then the entire bathroom went silent.

I turned to Isadora with a triumphant grin. “Problem solved.”

She blinked at me. Then glanced at the water-soaked bathmat. “Lucien, the whole bathroom is flooded.”

“Yes,” I said mildly. “Well, one problem solved.”

Isadora stared at me. Just stared. Like she couldn’t quite process what had just happened. I supposed it wasn’t every day someone witnessed another person threatening a toilet demon and winning.

Then, suddenly, she started laughing.

It was a full, deep-throated, damn-near-manic laugh. She clutched her sides as she doubled over, one hand covering her stomach while the other covered her mouth, as though that might stop the sound from escaping.

It didn’t. If anything, it made things worse. She was laughing so hard, her shoulders shook, and tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped between breaths.

“I just—oh gods, what even is my life right now? Demonically possessed toilets? A ghost that lives in a chandelier? A stalker who broke into my cheap-ass loft that looks like it’s about to fall apart at any second?

You threatening to salt my plumbing like some Catholic priest… ”

She snorted—actually snorted —and then, without warning, she surged forward, grabbed my lapels, and yanked me down for a kiss.

My eyes widened as I fumbled to catch her waist. My mind had completely stalled, utterly disarmed by her. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had initiated any form of intimacy with me. I was always the pursuer, never pursued. So, I wasn’t accustomed—or prepared—for this.

The realization lit a fire within me, and I slid one hand up to her jaw, cupping her face. Her lips parted beneath mine, and I sank into her like a man starved.

Her fingers tightened on my lapel, dragging me down, like she couldn’t get close enough. There was no hesitation in her—only heat and determination. She kissed me like I belonged to her. Like she was claiming me .

And I let her.

No one had ever reached for me like that. Not without calculation or masquerading it as affection. But Isadora wasn’t pretending. There was no manipulation in her touch. No agenda. Just desire.

I kissed her back with everything I had. Not because I was trying to win or prove something, but because I didn’t know how else to react. I gave her all of me—every sharp edge, every hollow, every piece of myself I’d kept hidden from society for so many years.

Because at that moment, I understood something with startling clarity.

This wasn’t just desire. It was the way I felt when I was with her. Needed. Appreciated.

I also knew, with startling clarity, that I would give her anything and everything she asked for. For as long as she wanted. Because even the thought of walking away felt like a kind of death I knew I wouldn’t survive.

I couldn’t imagine ever letting go.

So, I wouldn’t.

She was mine now—as much as I was hers. And I would burn the world down before I let anything change that.