Chapter 3 · The Most Devoted Puppy in Three Realms (1)

The next morning, Liora was woken by a knock at her door.

Actually, three knocks: two security guards in black suits, and a mountain of black roses—ninety-nine of them, arranged with the precision of a military formation. Behind the mountain, Kael Ashveil poked his head out, and said, with the gravity of a man reporting intelligence: "Good morning. The weather is excellent. It is an appropriate day to be proposed to."

"Proposed to?" Liora stood in the doorway, hair a bird's nest, door cracked open three inches. "Who's proposing to whom?"

"You. Me." He considered this. "I have been preparing for three thousand years. If it feels too fast, I can wait another three thousand."

"It feels too fast." She slammed the door.

Two seconds later, through the wood, a tiny, wounded: "…Oh."

She leaned against the door, rolled her eyes, and felt the corner of her mouth betray her. On the windowsill, the black rose from the morgue was still alive—three days, and not a single petal had dropped, as if someone had pressed pause on it. She'd looked it up. The species didn't exist.

Things that didn't exist had been living on her windowsill for three days. Her life was now full of things that didn't exist.

The ninety-nine roses ended up stacked in the hallway, and the landlord complained three times. Kael pivoted. He replaced the building's entire heating system, claiming "the hallway is too cold for the tenants' hearts." He bought out her coffee shop's year-round contract and replaced her oat-milk latte with a custom starlight brew that left her seeing everything with a soft glow for three days straight. He adopted the stray calico from downstairs, on the grounds that "she looks like you, little star—fierce on the surface, soft underneath," and every morning he placed the cat on her doormat with a card around its neck reading, in neat handwriting:

SURRENDER.

Liora stood in the doorway, holding the cat, and swore at the sunrise: "I'm calling the police."

Marcus laughed down the phone line until he wheezed. "Liora, every cop in New York knows you have a billionaire stalker. Major Crimes has officially classified him as 'the sweetest suspect.' Millie drew fan art of him last night."

"Send me the fan art," she said. "I need it as evidence."

"You're clearly enjoying—"

She hung up.

That evening, Kael "kidnapped" her.

That is: his guards politely invited her into a car, where Kael sat with a dossier, face grave. "Threat level S. As of tonight, you stay with me until I find the person leaving messages inside corpses' hearts."

"That's illegal imprisonment."

"Imprisonment is locking you up." He corrected her with total sincerity. "This is strategic cohabitation. You're free to come and go. It includes three meals, central heating, and one cat."

"I don't—"

"The cat misses you."

Liora looked at his face—the face that terrified three realms, utterly expressionless—and his crimson eyes, sincere to the point of stupidity. She was silent for five full seconds. Then she heard herself say: "…Fine. But I want the guest room."

"Of course." He nodded immediately. "You'll take the master."

"Guest."

"Master."

"Kael Ashveil."

"Liora Voss." He looked at her, and his voice dropped into something she hadn't expected—raw, almost vulnerable. "In twelve thousand years, this is the first house that's ever waited for its true owner. Don't argue with me on this."

She opened her mouth to say we've known each other three days. The words died in her throat.

Because when he said it, something in her chest ached. Sharp. As if a version of her, buried under twelve thousand years of ruins, had answered him.

The penthouse of Ashveil Security Consulting Group was, fundamentally, a fortress.

Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A throne that looked like it had been disassembled from a medieval castle and reassembled for fun. Behind the throne, a star chart she couldn't read. Kael sat at a dining table with two candles, two steaks, and a fresh bouquet of black roses. Candlelight flickered. The mood was immaculate.

Except that the man across from her was staring at his steak with the focus of a man studying a dissection specimen. For three full minutes.

"You're not eating?" Liora cut into hers.

"Noctharin don't eat," he said. "I've lived twelve thousand years without a single meal. This table is for you. I'll watch you eat."

"…So the three thousand years you spent preparing to propose—what did you do?"

"I learned to cook." He paused. "Studied three thousand years of recipes. Never found a pot I could use."

Liora swallowed her steak and felt her mouth twitch. "Then how do you survive?"

"On you."

Her hand stopped on the cutlery.

Kael wasn't looking at her. He was looking at his empty plate, voice flat as a weather report: "Every cycle, as long as you're alive, I live. If you die, I fall to ash and spend the next life putting myself back together. So, little star—curse me, kill me, carve me into three thousand pieces. Just don't leave me. If you leave, I won't even have ash left."

The dining room was so quiet you could hear the candles burn.

Liora set down her knife and fork. Her eyes were stinging, which was stupid. She turned her face away fast. "…Save it. The most powerful sovereign in three realms, playing the victim. No one buys it."