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I rubbed my temples. “Please. I haven’t had coffee yet.”

She sniffed. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare interrupt your glamorous post-coital spiral.”

I raised an eyebrow. “There was no—”

She held up a hand. “I don’t need the details. Just the confirmation that your fascinating choice of a partner for the night ended up in a separate room. A bold twist.”

Swinging my legs off the bed, I stood with as much dignity as possible while wrapped in wrinkled silk. “I need a bath.”

“You need an exorcism.”

I stepped toward the washroom, brushing past her. “Where is he?”

“Who? The heavenly brooder? Still downstairs. Aldric didn’t book the morning train… He made an executive decision when the shouting began last night, thinking you might appreciate the chance to sleep off your dramatics.”

I paused at the doorway. “What time’s the train then?”

“Two p.m. sharp,” she replied, picking up a discarded shoe with two fingers as if it offended her. “That gives you four hours to scrub the shame off, pack your vengeance, and pretend you’re not planning to glare at him the entire journey.”

I glanced toward the wall clock: 9:58 a.m. Perfect.

Leta turned toward the door. “Oh, and by the way, Mr. Remiel is currently enjoying goat cheese and honey with his tea in the kitchen. Shirtless.” And with that, she left, her laughter trailing behind her.

I quickly bathed, letting the steaming water scrub the night from my skin. The scent of rose and eucalyptus curled through the air like a balm. By the time I stepped out, I already felt lighter, not healed but cleaner. I put on a crisp linen blouse that I tucked into high-waisted trousers and a dark overcoat cinched at the waist and packed light, only what I’d need for a brief stay. I twisted my hair into a long braid that fell straight down my back, and the mirror offered me a quiet nod of approval.

When I made my way into the kitchen, the scent of black tea and warm bread greeted me like an old lover.

And there he was. Shirtless. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching the golden tones in his loose and damp hair. His skin gleamed olive gold, but the light was wrong. The ancient rune sigils at his temples weren’t glowing with their usual brilliant white. They flickered—a dull, bruised bronze. The skin around the runes looked raw, and the shadows under his eyes were too deep.

He slowly looked up, and his golden eyes met mine. Calm. Composed. He was buttering toast, looking like he wasn’t the wrath of Heaven incarnate, like he wasn’t still seared into my bones from the night before.

“Why are you shirtless in my kitchen?” I asked, my voice flat.

“Good morning to you too,” he replied, slicing into his toast as if this was just another mundane Tuesday.

I scowled.

He didn’t rise to it. Just took another sip of tea and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, like some infuriating celestial aristocrat. “While you got your beauty sleep,” he said, “I investigated the address the tribunal gave me. I’m curious if Valden gave you the same one.”

Without a word, I reached into my trouser pocket, pulled out the crumpled paper, and tossed it onto the table.

He picked it up, smoothed it flat, and breathed deeply. “I thought so,” he muttered. Then he spoke more sharply. “Well, I guess you’ve gotten yourself into something you have no business being in. As usual.”

“Fuck you,” I snapped.

He didn’t even blink. “You already did…a couple of times.”

Quiet. Gentle. A blow.

My jaw dropped. “What in the hell is your problem?”

He leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his bare chest. “I don’t know. And I don’t even know if I care anymore.”

Had I taken a moment to look more intently at him then, I would have noticed how profoundly those words resonated within him. I would have believed he actually spent the entire night turning them over in his mind. I would have seen the exhaustion etched into his features and the hopelessness clouding his expression.

But back then, I was utterly unaware of my impact on him, ignorant of his enduring inner turmoil. And yet, everything was teetering on the brink of becoming far, far worse by my very own reckless doing.

15. Remiel