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LIORA

M y heels click against the backstage hallway’s scuffed tile, echoing louder than they should. The adrenaline hasn’t worn off. Not completely. I can still feel the echo of his voice— Stay behind me —like it’s stitched into my skin.

What the hell was that?

I tug my robe tighter around me, cinching the silk like it’s armor instead of lingerie. My go-bag’s slung over one shoulder, light but familiar. The enchanted dagger tucked in the side pocket presses into my hip just enough to remind me I’m not safe. Never am.

Especially not now.

The emergency door creaks open under my hand, runes dimming beneath my fingers. The rain’s slowed to a mist, wrapping the alley in silver. Steam curls off the pavement, dancing in coils around the dumpsters and broken neon signs.

And then I see him.

Of course he’s still here.

The man from earlier is leaning against the brick wall like he was carved into it, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s been waiting—not impatient, not anxious, just there . Like time works differently around him.

Shit.

“Didn’t peg you for the loitering type,” I say, trying to sound casual. My voice lands softer than I like. Tired. Uneasy.

He doesn’t move. Just watches me with those storm-gray eyes like he’s already picked me apart and is waiting to see if I’ll lie about what he found.

“You always leave work through the fire exit?”

“Depends,” I shrug. “Sometimes I teleport. Sometimes I use the sewer grate. Keeps my fans guessing.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his mouth. He thinks I’m joking but it’s also not friendly.

He pushes off the wall, slow and smooth, like a man who knows he could take down whatever’s hiding behind the next corner and still not break a sweat.

“I’ve got questions,” he says. “About the guy who came through here tonight. Big, bearded, smelled like blood and bad decisions.”

“You just described the majority of our customers,” I deflect, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “What makes you think I’d know anything?”

His eyes narrow just a hair. “Because you’ve been here all night and I heard he caused issues and I would bet it was because of watching you. I get the feeling you might have that effect on people. And because whatever was stalking you last time we were out here, the smoke, you didn’t flinch. And because you’re not just a dancer.”

My heart punches my ribs from the inside. No one’s supposed to see through the glamour. No one.

But he’s not human. I know that much. There's something in the way he moves, in the heat he carries, that screams he’s a shifter. Loner, but still a powerful shifter.

Still, I can’t afford exposure.

“Look, I didn’t ask for your help back there,” I snap, sharper than I mean to be. “So whatever hero complex thing you’ve got going on, maybe save it for someone who didn’t grow up learning to run from men like you.”

His jaw ticks for a moment. Then he steps forward, voice low but steady. “Men like me?”

“Big. Quiet. Dangerous. The kind who ask questions they already know the answers to.”

He’s close now. Too close. Close enough that the steam curls around his body like it wants to touch him. And the glamour—fuck—it quivers .

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll trade. I tell you why I’m here, and you tell me what the hell was trying to crawl out of the dark earlier.”

I open my mouth. Ready to cut him down with a joke, a flirt, a lie—something.

But then I feel it again.

The cold.

That unnatural hush before a scream. The shadows shiver .

He turns, instinct already in motion, scanning the alley.

It’s back.

The mist .

It snakes around the edges of the bricks, thicker this time. Slick and black, like oil spilled across glass. But it doesn’t move like mist. It pulses. Like it’s breathing.

“Behind me,” Dante says again, but his tone’s different now. Grim.

I don’t listen.

I can’t.

Because while he’s focused on the thing creeping in from the ground, I see something else.

Up on the fire escape, crouched like a goddamn gargoyle, is a man I don’t recognize—but I know his kind. Eyes glowing yellow, lips peeled back over elongated teeth. His aura’s sick, too bright and too wrong, crackling with unstable magic.

It has to be the rogue the guy claims he’s after.

And he’s about to pounce.

“Hey,” I breathe. “Move?—!”

He turns half an inch as the mist retreats.

It’s enough to throw the attack off—but not stop it.

The rogue drops like a wrecking ball, claws out, teeth bared, aiming straight for the man’s throat.

I react before I think.

My hand flies up, runes along my forearm flaring to life. A column of shadow bursts from the ground between them, slamming into the rogue mid-air and hurling him sideways into the dumpster with a crash that rattles the metal all the way to the rooftops.

The shifter spins, already crouched and ready to shift—eyes glowing now, body tensed to strike.

But he’s not looking at the rogue.

He’s looking at me .

And my glamour’s gone.

The tattoos shine like wildfire across my skin. My eyes glow violet, not with magic borrowed, but with power I am . The shadows cling to my fingers, dripping like ink.

His gaze doesn’t hold anger. Or fear. Not yet.

But he sees me. Really sees me.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no?—”

I bolt.

I don’t wait for him to speak, or shout, or follow. I don’t give him a name, or a reason, or a promise.

The shadows wrap around my legs like silk and drag me down into the street’s cracks.

I disappear before the truth has a chance to settle.

Because if he looks at me too long…

He’ll stop seeing a woman who saved his life and start seeing what I really am.

A dark fae .

A walking prophecy.

And a monster the world’s been waiting to burn because even with the veil lifting, no one, not even other paranormal creatures, are ready for what I am.