Page 74 of Paws & Order

She squints. “Marked it?”

“Marked it,” I repeat.

She takes a second to process that, then laughs so hard she wheezes. “Cassian Wolfridge, you peed on the town psychiatrist’s car?”

I groan, mortified. “Can we maybe not tell anyone about this?”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she says, and kisses my shoulder. “But only if you promise to stay the night.”

I settle in, tucking her against my chest. “You drive a hard bargain.”

The room goes quiet, except for the sound of old pipes and the traffic out on Main. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s smiling, or that she feels safer here than she’s ever let on. My body is spent, my mind is quiet, and for the first time since I took this job, I think maybe tomorrow can wait.

She dozes, and I stare at the ceiling fan, watching the lazy revolutions, wondering if I’ll ever find equilibrium between the man and the beast. Maybe I won’t. Maybe that’s the point. But with her, in this bed, I don’t need to choose.

CHAPTER 17

LIZA

Iwake to the scent of coffee. For a moment, buried in my pillow, I smile, convinced Cassian is brewing it—until I remember he never adds cinnamon. My eyes snap open, and I see Cassian fast asleep beside me. The apartment is silent, sunlight spilling through the blinds onto an empty pillow. A faint clink draws me toward the kitchen. Barefoot and wrapped in one of Cassian’s shirts, I follow the sound with a calm certainty—and stop cold.

At the counter stands a man: tall, thin, dressed in a charcoal frock coat and waistcoat that might belong in a museum. His dark hair is perfectly combed, his posture immaculate—and he is very, very dead. Then he turns and smiles, warm and familiar.

“Good morning, Miss Morales.”

I laugh—not because it’s funny, but because after weeks of being haunted by a Victorian ghost, this feels completely normal.

“Teddy?”

“Theodore, technically.”

“You’ll always be Teddy to me.”

He sighs dramatically. “I feared so.”

I laugh again as the apartment seems to lighten, as though a tension I haven’t noticed finally releases. By ghostly magic, hepours coffee into two mugs. I decide not to question phantom physics.

“You can finally see me.”

“I can.”

“I was beginning to think I’d have to start throwing furniture.”

“You repaired my furniture,” I remind him.

“I preferred a subtle approach.”

I lean against the counter and study him. He looks younger than I expected, but sadder too—wistful rather than haunted.

“You scared the hell out of me, you know.”

He winces. “My apologies.”

“At least you left coins.”

“You like shiny things.”

“I do.”