Page 57

He shucks his tailored charcoal jacket, hanging it neatly on an iron coat hook, before rolling his white dress shirtsleeves up to his elbows. The thick, dark hair on his forearms is dusted with the silver threads of his clan marks, and the living Celtic braid on his wrist catches the chandelier light in a faint, steady gold pulse.

"They aren't boots, they're loafers, and the house made them out of thin air," I mutter, padding across the parquet in my black trouser socks. "If the cat eats them, I'll just ask for a pair in burgundy."

From high above, a sharp, hollow tack-tack-tack sounds from the carved mahogany moldings near the ceiling.

I look up.

The wooden owl is perched on the head of an intricately carved griffin, its polished yellow glass eyes blinking down at us with unmistakable condescension.

Below it, Kirk is crouched on the bottom step of the staircase, his wooden hindquarters wiggling in a rhythmic pre-pounce calculation. His carved tail lashes against the carpet with a dull thwack-thwack-thwack.

"Kirk, no," I warn him. "You have no wings. You are made of solid wood. I’m not a scientist, but physics will win."

Kirk ignores me completely. He launches himself four feet into the air toward the griffin, misses by at least two yards, and lands on the hall runner with the concussive clatter of a falling two-by-four.

The owl clicks its beak twice—a sound that sounds suspiciously like a laugh—spreads its jointed wooden wings, and glides lazily down the hall toward the kitchen.

Kirk scrambles up, entirely unbothered by his undignified crash, and trots after the bird with his tail held straight up in the air.

"They're menaces," Lachlan says, though the corner of his beard twitches as he follows the sound of the wooden animals into the back of the house.

"They have personality," I counter, trailing after him. "Which is more than I can say for my former department chair."

The kitchen is warm when we walk in, the massive black range radiating a low, comforting heat. The house has clearly decided that we require comfort food: sitting on the black soapstone island is a cast-iron Dutch oven, steam whistling gently from under its heavy lid. Beside it sits a crusty round of sourdough loaf, a crock of salted butter, and a bottle of dark, inky red wine with an unlabeled wax neck.

Lachlan lifts the lid of the pot, inhaling deeply. "Venison stew. Carrots, root vegetables, dark ale."

My stomach lets out an audible, aggressive growl that echoes off the limestone walls.

"Sit," Lachlan says, pulling out one of the leather-backed stools at the island and gesturing with a wooden spoon. "I'll ladle it out."

I don't argue. I sink onto the stool, resting my chin in my hands, watching him move around the kitchen.

There is something hypnotic about watching a man of his size handle domestic tasks. He’s six feet and eight inches of ancient Highland warrior, broad enough to block a doorway and capable of snapping padlocks with his bare hands, yet he cuts the bread into thick, even slices with a light, effortless touch. He pours the red wine into two heavy crystal tumblers, sliding one across the soapstone toward me before setting down a wide, shallow bowl filled with rich, dark stew.

The first bite is so good I have to close my eyes. The meat is tender enough to dissolve on my tongue, the broth thick, rich with rosemary and garlic and dark beer.

"If I had known being hunted by an immortal vampire syndicate came with private chef privileges, I might have checked the tunnels years ago," I say around a mouthful of sourdough.

Lachlan takes the stool beside me, setting his own massive bowl down. He doesn't eat with the frantic hunger I saw this morning; he eats steadily, methodically, though his eyes keep flicking to my face, tracking every reaction.

"You did well today," he says quietly, his voice low in the quiet room.

"I felt like a fraud," I admit, staring down at my bowl. "I was sitting in that lawyer's office asking for ten million dollars like I was ordering a side of fries, and the whole time my hands were sweating inside my coat pockets. Three days ag ,my biggest financial triumph was finding a five-dollar bill in the pocket of an old winter coat so I could buy laundry detergent."

"You weren't a fraud." Lachlan reaches over, nudging the crystal tumbler of wine closer to my fingers. "The money belongs to Midnight. It belongs to you. And that coward in the office took your labor for years without paying you a copper. You only balanced the ledger, Vivienne."

"I was petty," I say, though a faint smile touches my mouth. "I made them agree to an external audit. Cole is going to have to explain to a panel of sixty-year-old historians why his Latin translations have the exact same syntax errors as my notes."

Lachlan’s low chuckle rumbles through the stone counter between us. "Spite is an honorable Highland tradition. We've burned down castles for far less."

"Good to know I have historical precedent." I take a sip of the wine. It's dry, heavy, and warming, tasting of blackberries and black pepper.

I set the glass down, watching the way the red liquid clings to the crystal, and the lightheartedness in the room shifts. The practical reality of what comes next settles back over my shoulders, heavy as wet wool.

"We need a story," I say.

Lachlan pauses, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "A story?"