Chapter 95 Dante
I stepped out of the bathroom still toweling water from my hair, the mirror fogged behind me, my skin finally not humming like it might combust if someone breathed wrong.
Purple sweats.
Her purple sweats.
I stared down at myself for half a second, then huffed a quiet laugh. They were soft—ridiculously so—and just a little short on me, cuffs riding higher on my ankles than dignity would prefer. I’d borrowed them without asking. Necessity. Survival. And because everything I owned was either soaked, scorched, or currently unfit for polite society.
The apartment—townhouse, actually—was quieter now. Not silent. Just… steadier.
Lucian and Amara had moved through the space with practiced efficiency while I showered, drying floors, opening windows, muttering to each other in low voices that sounded suspiciously like flirting disguised as logistics. The kind of teamwork that only came from centuries of shared chaos.
Seraphine had taken the girls one by one, showing them spare rooms, fresh towels, spare clothes she somehow had enough of, murmuring reassurances I couldn’t quite hear but felt anyway—like the afterglow of warmth left behind after a fire dies down properly.
Three bedrooms.
She lived here alone.
I paused in the hallway, gaze drifting, cataloging details without meaning to. Clean lines. Books everywhere. Plants that somehow hadn’t died despite… everything. Art on the walls that wasn’t expensive but was personal—prints, sketches, photos that felt chosen instead of staged.
“She rents all this by herself?” I muttered under my breath.
Amara, passing behind me with an armful of blankets, didn’t even slow. “Nope.”
Lucian glanced over from the couch. “That’d be impressive, though.”
I frowned slightly. “Then how—”
“She inherited it,” Amara said, tone deliberately light. “From her dad. Before he… well. Left.”
That was all she said.
And I let it be all she said.
I already knew the rest. Had known pieces of it long before Seraphine ever stepped into my orbit—paper trails, whispered reports, absences that spoke louder than records. But this wasn’t my truth to unpack. Not tonight. Not ever, unless she chose it.
So I nodded instead, filing the information away with a quiet hmm.
No rent.
A townhouse.
That explained a few things. And complicated others.
Lucian’s phone chimed. “Food’s on the way,” he announced. “I ordered enough to feed an army or one traumatized household. Hard to tell the difference.”
“Bless you,” Amara said fervently.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely. My body still ached—good ache, the kind that meant I’d survived something. My dragon was quieter now, curled low and watchful instead of clawing at my ribs.
Then Seraphine appeared at the end of the hall.
Semi-wet clothes clung to her like she’d given up halfway through drying off, hair twisted up in a messy knot that was definitely not intentional and absolutely perfect. There was a towel slung over one shoulder, damp and dripping, and exhaustion written into the lines around her eyes.
She looked… done.
“My house is not waterproof,” she muttered, staring mournfully at a darkened patch of wood near the entryway. “Which feels like a design flaw, honestly.”
I straightened immediately. “Are you okay?”
She glanced up at me, then down at my legs.
Her mouth twitched.
“Did you steal my sweats?”
I looked down again, feigning inspection. “Borrowed. Temporarily. In my defense, they were the only thing within reach that didn’t smell like smoke or blood.”
“They’re purple,” she said solemnly.
“Yes.”
“And too small for you.”
“Also yes.”
She sighed dramatically. “Unbelievable.”
But there was no heat in it. Just tired fondness. The kind that made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fire.
“I’m fine,” she said, softer now. “Just… waterlogged. I’m going to shower for real this time before my floors revolt.”
I stepped closer without thinking, lowering my voice. “You don’t have to do everything tonight.”
She met my gaze, something flickering there—resolve, stubbornness, compassion that burned hotter than any flame I could conjure. “I know. But I want to.”
Of course she did.
I nodded once. “I’ll be here.”
Her eyes dropped to my chest, then back to my face. “You look… weirdly normal in my clothes.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
She smiled then. A small one. Real. And gods help me, it felt like a reward.
As she passed me toward the bathroom, she bumped my shoulder lightly. “Try not to stretch them out, Fire King.”
“No promises.”
She snorted, disappearing behind the door.
I exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall, listening to the water start up again—gentler this time.
Lucian glanced at me from the couch, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re wearing purple.”
“I’m aware.”
Amara grinned. “It suits you.”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t change.
Didn’t want to.
I stayed where I was, eyes fixed on the closed bathroom door like I could see through it if I stared hard enough.
Steam curled faintly from under the frame. The sound of the shower was steady now—not frantic, not rushed. That helped. A little.
“Amara,” I said quietly, not taking my eyes off the door. “Is this… too much for her?”
Amara didn’t answer right away.
I finally looked over.
She’d sat on the arm of the couch, elbows on her knees, fingers laced together—not tense, exactly, but thoughtful. Like she was weighing something that didn’t have a clean answer.
“I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “Honestly? Anyone else would already be broken.” She glanced toward the hallway. “But Seraphine has a good heart. A dangerous one, in the best way.”
I huffed a quiet breath. “Dangerous how?”
“She won’t walk away,” Amara said simply. “Not when people are hurting. Not when she thinks she can help. She’ll burn herself out before she lets someone else fall.”
That landed heavier than I liked.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Lucian shifted on the couch, rubbing both hands down his face like he was trying to scrub the day off his skin. “I hate to break up the emotional processing,” he said, exhausted, “but we still have a compromised penthouse and a very big problem.”
I turned toward him. “What do we do about it?”
He laughed once, hollow. “If you’re asking me for a plan, I’ve got bad news. I don’t even know where to start.”
“That bad?” I asked.
Lucian leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Someone got a witch construct into a high-security neutral space without tripping any of my safeguards. That means either I missed something massive, or someone wanted it missed.”
Amara straightened. “Which brings us to a better question,” she said. “Do any of the other kings have witches on their territory? Or wouldn’t notice if they did?”
I frowned immediately. “Only one.”
Both of them looked at me.