Page 65 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Earned it shall be. Tell me what you consider a worthy payment. I’ve been told I make an excellent taste-tester. And I can be very patient when properly motivated.

A few heartbeats later, another lily spiraled in—large and pale pink, a bloom fit for a king.

Patience is a promising start. Proper motivation, however, remains to be seen.

Ark set the lily down, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. He wrote:

Proper motivation. I was afraid you’d say that.

I smell a challenge—and, like you, I’ve never been very good at walking away from one.

The next flower arrived a few minutes later. A white amaryllis.

A challenge, then. I’ll be curious to see how you meet it.

When I need motivation, I reach for a strong black tea—or coffee, if I’m feeling reckless. I’d offer you a cup, but you don’t drink caffeine.

Ark’s smile deepened. He dipped his quill again, his reply coming quickly.

That would be too much motivation for me. You wouldn’t want to see me so . . . motivated.

Even as he sent his raven away, he knew: He was walking a thin line. It was too easy to have this natural banter with Cassia, but the caffeine comment had been a risk. Had she finally figured out what it did to his kind? Or had she asked Lilibeth? With her demon heritage, the half-Amoret might know.

He didn’t think Cassia discovered it, not yet. But she was curious.

And curiosity, in her hands, was a dangerous thing.

With a small smile, he crossed to the marble credenza against the side wall. A small obsidian vase sat there, waiting. He placed all five flowers inside, cupped his hands above them, and murmured a few low verses in Daemaric. A thin veil of silver light pulsed over the blooms. The petals firmed, the scent of cinnamon suspended in time like perfumed mist held in a glass jar. Later, he’d take them home to join the rest of the flowers.

He returned to his desk, dipped his quill, paused, set it down, and picked it up again. The words hovered—not the easy banter he’d been trading all morning, but something entirely new to him. His hand moved before he could stop it.

I stayed at my office last night. My house felt too empty after yours. I’ve never thought much about what a home should feel like until now.

So thank you. For showing me.

P.S. I even miss the looks from your judgmental cat.

Ark leaned back in his chair, the last echo of the message still humming through him. He hadn’t meant to say as much as he had. Yet, he hadn’t edited it either.

He wasn’t sure when the shift had started. Maybe it was last night at the auction, watching her stand unshaken while his world tried to tear her apart. Or when she’d sat beside him, tending his wound. Or the way she’d listened to him—no judgment, just the recognition of someone who understood what it meant to carry something alone.

He exhaled slowly, letting his head tip back against the chair. Should he have stopped these messages while they were still a game, before they became something else?

But even as the question formed, it answered itself: it was already too late. Maybe it had been since the night she stood in front of The Ivory Club and dared a room full of demons to look away.

He’d been telling himself it was nothing more than strategy—an arrangement, a performance with an expiration date. But one didn’t preserve someone’s flowers in an enchanted vase because of a contract. One didn’t lie awake in an empty office because her house felt more like home than anywhere one had ever lived.

This hadn’t been a game for a while.

Had it ever been?

His gaze drifted to the vase. Five flowers, suspended in silver light, still perfuming the air with the scent of pastries. Minutes stretched. Her reply should’ve arrived by now, trailing spice and wit. But none came.

He told himself she was busy. The bakery. The children. A dozen tiny hands tugging at her, a hundred small demands that had nothing to do with him.

But some small, unreasonable part of him wondered if he’d finally said too much—and a smaller, more terrifying part wondered what it could be if she felt . . . the same.

He wiped his face, knowing he ought to focus. There was paperwork on properties he needed to review, three artifacts that had been waiting a week to be identified. But instead, he rose and paced.