Chapter 126
Sebastian
The surveillance photos spread across my desk told a story I refused to accept. Lirael—my Lirael—walking into Gray Enterprises headquarters in a tailored suit that probably cost a fortune. Shaking hands with investors, her silver hair pinned up to expose the elegant line of her neck where my mark should have been visible but somehow wasn't. Laughing at something Damian said, her expression open in a way she'd never been with me.
I'd spent two months tracking her through proxies and informants, mapping her new life with obsessive attention. Marcus had compiled comprehensive intel on her routines, security protocols, the villa Damian had installed her in. I knew she took her coffee black, worked late into the night, fed the sparrows on her balcony each evening at sunset.
I knew everything except how to get her back.
"Sir?" Marcus hovered in the doorway. "The surveillance team reports Ms. Gray will be at the coastal villa this evening. Should we—"
"Prepare the car," I cut him off. "I'll handle this personally."
Marcus's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Sir, perhaps a more subtle approach—"
"I'm done with subtle." I stood, shoving the photos into a drawer. "She thinks she can just... move on? Build a new life like the past two months never happened? Like we never happened?"
"Sir, technically you agreed you were 'settled' after she saved your life—"
"I was delirious and dying," I snarled, though we both knew that was only half true. "Whatever I said then doesn't count. She's mine, Marcus. The blood bond proves it. Her body remembers me even if she's trying to convince herself otherwise."
Marcus wisely said nothing. Smart man.
I grabbed my coat, pausing only to add, "And Marcus? Find out what flowers mean 'I'm sorry.' Not that I'm actually sorry for claiming her, but apparently there are... protocols for this sort of thing."
"Sir?"
"Saw a mother teaching her son yesterday. She said women like flowers. So find out which ones mean what I need them to mean."
The drive took forty-five minutes. My attention remained fixed on the GPS tracker showing Lirael's location—stationary, probably in her room or on that damn balcony feeding those damn birds.
By the time I reached the villa's perimeter, dusk had fallen. I spotted her on the second-floor balcony in a simple white dress, the ocean breeze molding it to her body, silver hair streaming behind her like liquid moonlight. As I watched, she extended her hand, and a sparrow landed on her palm with the trust of a creature that recognized its own.
My fingers tightened on the steering wheel hard enough that the leather creaked. Two months. Two months of absence I could feel in my bones.
I pulled out my phone and took a photo, capturing her in that unguarded moment, then another, and another, building a catalog I knew was deeply fucked up and couldn't bring myself to care about. The bite mark had healed—or she'd hidden it somehow—but I could still see it in my mind's eye, silver against pale skin, proof she'd been mine.
Movement near the gate caught my attention—a woman with a young boy, the kid gesturing animatedly. As they passed my car, I heard the boy's voice: "...and then you give her flowers, right? Because girls like flowers?"
"That's right, sweetheart," the mother replied warmly. "Flowers show you care."
I stared after them, an idea forming that was probably terrible but felt right. Before I could second-guess myself, I dialed Marcus.
"Sir?"
"What flowers express apology?"
Pause. "Sir, you've never needed to apologize to anyone—"
"I'm asking what flowers mean 'I'm sorry,' not whether I should be. Answer the question."
"White roses traditionally symbolize apology and new beginnings. Though given the complexity of your situation—"
"Buy them all," I interrupted. "Every white flower in the city. And arrange dinner at the villa—something impressive but not threatening. Candles, wine, whatever the hell people do when they're trying to..."
I trailed off, unable to finish because I wasn't sure what I was trying to do. Win her back? Prove she still wanted me? Force her to acknowledge the bond she was so determined to ignore?
"I'll make the arrangements," Marcus said diplomatically. "Should I inform Ms. Gray you'll be visiting?"
"No." I watched Lirael on her balcony, the last rays of sunlight turning her hair to spun silver. "I want it to be a surprise."
---
Three days. It took three days to acquire enough flowers to fill a delivery truck and convince myself this wasn't the worst idea I'd ever had. I'd settled on white irises—not quite the same as the ones I'd brought to Derek's memorial, but close enough. They represented hope and faith, according to the florist I'd probably traumatized.
I was reviewing final details with Marcus when my phone buzzed with a news alert. I almost ignored it, but something made me glance at the screen.
The headline punched through my concentration: GRAY ENTERPRISES UNVEILS MYSTERY VP: LEGENDARY HACKER 'MOONLIT FISH' REVEALED
My vision tunneled. There she was—Lirael, standing beside Damian on the headquarters steps, her silver hair catching camera flashes and her half-mask doing nothing to disguise the familiar curve of her mouth. Damian had his hand on her shoulder, the gesture proprietary and protective, and his expression as he looked at her carried a warmth that made my blood turn to acid.
"...thrilled to introduce our new VP of Strategic Investments," Damian was saying in the video clip. "This is Moonlit Fish herself—a legend in our field and someone I'm honored to call family."
Family. The word detonated in my skull. I watched as a reporter pushed forward: "Mr. Gray, can you comment on the nature of your relationship with Ms. Fish?"
Damian smiled, his fingers tightening briefly on Lirael's shoulder—a gesture of possession I recognized because I'd made it myself a hundred times. "She's the most important person in my life. I owe her more than I could ever repay."
The reporter turned to Lirael. "And you, Ms. Fish? How would you describe Mr. Gray?"
Through the screen, I watched her expression soften in a way I'd never seen directed at me. "Damian saved my life when I had nowhere else to turn. I wouldn't be here without him."
She didn't deny his claim. Didn't correct the obvious implication. Just stood there beside him, looking comfortable and content and utterly beyond my reach.
My hand moved before my brain caught up, and the phone sailed across the room to shatter against the television screen in an explosion of glass and plastic. The TV flickered once, Lirael's face pixelating, then went dark.
"Sir—" Marcus started, but I was already moving, my vision edged with gold and hands shaking with the effort of not transforming.
"Get me everything," I snarled, the words more growl than speech. "Every detail of tonight's schedule. Where they're going, who's attending, what fucking cologne Damian wears so I can rip his throat out before he gets within ten feet of her."
"Sir, the news mentioned a celebration at the Neptune Hotel—"
"Then that's where we're going." I grabbed my coat, barely registering the glass shards in my knuckles or the blood dripping onto my shirt. "Prepare the car. Now."
As Marcus hurried out, I caught my reflection in the fractured screen—eyes gone full gold, pupils contracted to vertical slits, the careful mask of civility cracking to reveal the predator underneath.
"She's mine," I told my reflection. "I don't care what title Damian gave her or how many press conferences they stage. That mark on her neck is mine, the bond in her blood is mine, and I'm done pretending I'm going to let her walk away."