Chapter 70
Lirael
The café smelled of caramelized sugar and espresso. I'd chosen a corner table with clear sightlines to both entrances—old habits—and ordered enough French pastries to stage an apology I didn't owe but desperately needed him to believe.
Caramel macchiato, strawberry mille-feuille, chocolate éclairs, raspberry tarts—I'd studied Damian's preferences over three years of encrypted conversations, catalogued every casual mention of what he enjoyed. The spread looked generous, grateful, exactly what someone would order to thank a trusted ally.
When Damian walked through the door, I waved with what I prayed looked like genuine warmth. "Over here! I ordered your favorites—caramel macchiato and the strawberry layer cake."
He moved toward me with that familiar English gentleman's grace, but something felt off in a way I couldn't immediately pin down. The way he settled into the chair carried an edge I'd never noticed before, his gaze sweeping the room with predatory precision.
"This much?" His voice held Damian's warmth, but beneath it ran something darker. "Can we even finish all this?"
"You said you liked sweets." I forced brightness into my tone while my instincts screamed warnings. "And today's about thanking you. Of course I'd get what you love."
He picked up the macchiato, and I found myself watching his hands—pianist's fingers, the small scar on his right pinky from that childhood riding accident in London.
"Fair enough." He took a sip, and something flickered across his face—distaste, quickly masked. "Whatever you enjoy, I enjoy."
The phrase landed wrong. Damian had never said anything quite like that, never with that particular cadence of possession. I took a careful sip of my own coffee, studying him. Same silver-streaked dark hair, same aristocratic features, same impeccable tailoring.
Yet the way he looked at me felt different. Less concerned older brother, more—
Stop it. You're being paranoid. Damian is safe. Damian saved you.
"I found something today," I said, steering into business. "About the Hartfields. There was a butler who knew all the details when they sold me—dates, amounts, everything. But when I went looking this afternoon, he'd already disappeared."
"Disappeared?" His attention sharpened in a way that felt too predatory.
"Vanished within the last forty-eight hours." I leaned forward, lowering my voice. "Alicia Blackwood took the entire Hartfield family under her 'protection' right after their bankruptcy. She's Sebastian's aunt, branch family. She doesn't want to spend her own money bailing out relatives—she wants to use them as weapons."
"Use them how?"
"Against me." I picked at a croissant without eating. "The Hartfields are desperate, easily controlled, and they know everything about what I am. Alicia can leverage that without Sebastian knowing she's interfering with his 'property.' It's elegant. She undermines me while looking generous."
I paused, gauging his reaction. Damian would normally interject with strategic advice. Instead he sat utterly still, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"I need to move against her before she weaponizes them," I continued, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Target the branch families' finances, cut off cash flow to Alicia's faction. But I want to avoid Sebastian if possible." I rubbed my temples. "Just thinking about facing him makes my head hurt. That psychotic wolf is my absolute worst nightmare—my personal kryptonite."
The porcelain spoon in his hand snapped.
The sound cut through the café's murmur like a gunshot. I jerked back as the sharp edge sliced his finger, blood welling bright against pale skin before dripping onto the white tablecloth in three perfect drops.
"Damian!" I reached for him reflexively, already pulling out the band-aids I always carried. "Your hand!"
But he didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just stared at his bleeding finger with an expression I couldn't read—fury and anguish and dark amusement. When he looked up, his eyes had changed. Still the right color, still Damian's face, but the soul looking out was entirely different.
"Little Lirael," he said softly, and the endearment came out like a death sentence. "Tell me more about how I'm your nightmare."
Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice.
No. No no no—
My mind raced backward, replaying every word. That psychotic wolf. My worst nightmare. My personal kryptonite. And I'd laid out my entire strategy—Alicia, the branch families, everything. I'd handed him a complete blueprint.
I'd just committed suicide over French pastries.
"Tell me," he continued in that terrible gentle voice, "about how you get headaches thinking about me. About how I'm a 'psychotic wolf.' Your kryptonite." His smile was razor-sharp. "Please. I'm fascinated."
"Sebastian." His name barely made it past my throat. My hands shook so badly I had to press them flat against the table. "When did you—"
"The phone call this afternoon." Each word came out precise, controlled, but rage simmered beneath. "You asked 'Damian' to stop calling you 'little Lirael,' said you didn't like men using intimate tones. And I thought—interesting. She doesn't mind Ethan's attention, doesn't mind working with him, dancing with him. But Damian's affection bothers her. Why?"
He leaned forward, and I saw it now—all the subtle differences. The way his shoulders carried themselves, broader and more aggressive. The golden undertone in eyes that should have been pure gray. The predator's stillness Damian had never quite mastered.
"So I decided to test a theory." His voice dropped lower, intimate. "Came here myself, wearing his face, wondering what you'd say when you felt safe." He tilted his head. "And you know what I learned?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe.
"I learned you think I'm psychotic. That seeing me gives you headaches. That I'm your kryptonite—which implies you see yourself as some kind of hero." His laugh held no humor.
The endearment—"little moon"—hit like a blow. He'd used it before, but never like this. Never wrapped in such cold fury.
"I—" My voice cracked. "I didn't—"
"Didn't what? Didn't mean it?" The movement was pure Sebastian despite Damian's features. "Didn't think I'd find out? Or didn't think I'd care that you called me a psychotic wolf while plotting against my family?"
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, and I hated myself for the weakness. "I didn't mean—"
"Oh, you meant every word." He reached across the table with terrifying gentleness. I flinched, but he only picked up my hand, thumb finding the pulse at my wrist. "That's what makes this perfect. No performance, no lies. Just pure, unfiltered Lirael, telling her trusted friend exactly what she thinks of me."
He pressed the band-aid I'd been holding against his cut, using my own hand. The intimacy made my stomach churn.