Page 62

Back to the present

Hagan stood at the balcony now, half behind the curtain like some stalker villain in a mid-tier drama.

But gods. Look at her.

His eyes drifted—trailing the curve of her thigh, the dip of her waist, the way her mouth pulled to the side as she spoke to someone just out of view.

Mine.

The refrain came unbidden. Raw. Uncompromising.

That warlock had no idea who he was dealing with.

He'd tried to be patient.

Tried to earn her smiles back slowly.

But something hot and primal curled low in his gut. A growl built in his throat.

He dragged a hand down his face.

"She's going to be the death of me."

Veyr didn't look up from his book. "Try not to get arrested before that. "

Dinner had been the first disaster.

Riven, impeccable in his slate-grey suit, had arrived at Seren's apartment with a bouquet of red roses and the kind of polished smile that probably got him diplomatic immunity in three realms. He opened the car door for her, complimented her earrings, and looked at her like she was the only woman on the planet.

What he didn't notice was the sleek black car pulling out behind them.

Inside it, Hagan sat like a thundercloud in tailored charcoal.

He was in a suit—an actual suit—and it was a crime.

The crisp white shirt hugged his chest and broad shoulders like a sin, and the dark trousers clung to his thighs like they were holding on for dear life.

He'd shaved, his hair was neat, and yet his expression said: I will commit arson if necessary.

They parked.

So did he.

They entered the restaurant.

So did he—moments later.

Hagan picked the table right next to theirs. Ordered. Just sat there flipping the menu with the aggression of a man personally wronged by pasta .

Seren tried to ignore him. Really, she did.

But when Riven reached across the table and gently tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, Hagan's glass cracked in his hand like a gunshot.

The waitress nearly dropped her tray.

Riven blinked, startled.

"Slippery hands," Hagan said, voice like velvet stretched over barbed wire. "Sorry."

Seren's eyes could've melted glaciers. "Hagan."

"Yes, Seren?"

"Leave."

"I just got here."

Dinner couldn't end fast enough.

But of course, it didn't end there.

The gallery was tasteful and quiet, with fire and storm splashed across canvases in strange abstraction.

Riven made insightful comments about brushstrokes .

Seren nodded politely at a painting that looked like a toddler had finger-painted it.

And Hagan loomed behind a marble column like a brooding, vengeful mythological enforcer.

He was not quiet.

"Do you think the red here symbolises emotional detachment?" Riven asked smoothly.

"I think the red here symbolises bleeding out from the groin," Hagan muttered from behind them as Riven admired a painting.

Seren spun. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

She didn't have to see him to feel him: arms crossed, glowering at a tray of mini quiches like they'd insulted his ancestors.

She sighed, offering Riven a tight smile. "Excuse us a moment."

She dragged Hagan by the arm past a cluster of patrons discussing post-modern existentialist trauma, up to the coffee bar. Sparks flew as muscles in his arm flexed under her hand. Her favourite aroma-him- teased her senses.

"Hagan."

"Seren. "

"What are you doing here?"

He was already halfway through a stolen mini quiche. "Supporting the arts."

"Why are you following me?"

"Not following. Overseeing. It's different."

"Overseeing? Like a stalker?"

He arched a brow. "Protective ex-almost-bonded."

"That's not a thing," she snapped.

"Should be."

Before she could respond, Riven caught up, holding two glasses of white wine and a brow raised in mild amusement. "Everything all right?"

Hagan reached out and snatched one glass from Riven's hand as if it owed him money. "Better now."

Seren blinked. "Hagan—"

"Thank you for keeping my fated entertained," he said in a pleasant baritone, sipping the wine and glaring at Riven over the rim. "She tends to attract trouble. Must be the hair. Or the eyes. Or the ars— "

"Don't you dare," Seren snapped.

Riven was blinking in confusion. "I—uh—I think I'll go refresh our drinks."

He fled.

Seren glared. "You need help."

"I do," Hagan said quietly. "And you're the only thing that's ever works."

That did it.

Seren's breath hitched. Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides. But before she could respond—before the tremble in her chin could betray her—Riven returned, wine glasses in hand and a polite smile half-frozen on his face.

"There was a bit of a queue," he said awkwardly, glancing between them, a question in his eyes.

Seren exhaled shakily, dragging her composure back on like armour. "I'm sorry, Riven. There's—uh—there's a plumbing issue. In the apartment. Burst pipe. I just got a message."

Riven blinked. "Oh. I can drive you back."

"She's lying," Hagan said pleasantly, hands in his pockets, looking entirely unbothered. "She's just trying to get rid of you. "

Seren turned on him with a glare hot enough to curdle blood. "Shut up."

"I'm helping," Hagan said, as if that explained everything.

Riven blinked again, clearly regretting his recent life choices.

"I'm really sorry," Seren muttered to Riven, brushing past him.

She didn't wait for a reply. She stormed off through the gallery doors, heels echoing.

Hagan gave Riven a slow smile. "Thanks for the wine."

Then he followed her.

Of course, he followed her.