Caleb's gaze lingered on the curve of Luna's lower lip, still swollen from their earlier collision. "Still pretending you don't know what you do to me?"
She turned toward the rain-streaked window, the city blurring into watercolor smears. "I don't pretend. I survive."
The Rolls glided past Sweet Haven Patisserie, its striped awning sagging under November drizzle. Luna's knuckles whitened around her grandmother's pendant—a tarnished silver belladonna charm. The shop's vanilla-scented ghosts wafted through cracked glass: Mama's laugh as flour dusted her apron, the way she'd hum Puccini arias while piping rosettes.
Caleb killed the engine without comment. The patisserie's doorbell jingled like a funeral dirge.
—
Inside, Claire Voss's peacock cackle ricocheted off macaron displays. "—found her husband at a truck stop, I swear! Probably paid him in goat cheese."
Mia's snort died as Caleb's shadow fell across the mille-feuille case. The Thorn heir's presence warped the room—six-foot-three of tailored vengeance, cufflinks glinting like surgical tools.
"Vanilla chiffon," he said, sliding the obsidian card across the counter. "With edible gold leaf."
Mr. Jenkins fumbled his tongs. The Thorn insignia glared up from the card, its serpentine T swallowing the patisserie's twee charm.
Claire's collagen-plumped lips parted. "You're… you're not—"
"Her bodyguard?" Caleb's smile could've frozen the Seine. "No. I'm the man who'll burn your trust fund to ash if you breathe near her again."
Mia dropped her éclair.
Luna chose that moment to emerge from the restroom, eyes still raw from memory's scalpel. The room pivoted toward her—Claire's venom, Mia's awe, Caleb's predatory stillness.
"Darling." Caleb's arm circled her waist, branding through linen. "Your sister was just… apologizing."
Claire's stiletto snapped a macaron carcass. "I didn't—!"
"You will." He pressed a thumb to Luna's pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick thrum. "Unless you'd prefer bankruptcy by breakfast."
The kitchen doors burst open. Jenkins staggered out with a cake box trailing gold leaf like molted dragon scales. "Y-your order, Mr. Thorn."
Caleb lifted the lid. Vanilla essence bloomed—not the synthetic extract Claire's cake reeked of, but Madagascar pods steeped in cognac. Mama's recipe.
Luna's resolve crumbled. "How…?"
"Your grandmother's journals." He brushed a crumb from her veil. "Page forty-two."
Claire's shriek shattered the moment. "You're lying! She can't be—!"
Luna caught her reflection in the cake knife's blade—veiled outsider no longer. "Meet Caleb Thorn," she said, sweet as cyanide. "My husband."
The word detonated. Mia fainted into a croquembouche. Claire's foundation cracked like drought soil.
—
Rain lashed the Rolls' windows as Caleb fed Luna a forkful of cake. The first bite unleashed a decade's grief—Mama's hands guiding hers, flour fingerprints on recipe cards, the last cake shared hours before the fall.
"He pushed himself." The confession tore free, syrup-sticky. "Grandfather—he lunged at me, lost his balance. They called it my curse, but…"
Caleb stilled the trembling fork. "You were eight."
"Old enough to know better."
"Old enough to survive." His thumb smeared icing across her lip. "Eat, wife. The dead can wait."
—
Later, in the solarium's poison-tinted gloom, Caleb unspooled the truth. Security footage from that long-ago hall, time-stamped 3:07 a.m.—Grandfather Carter's drunken stumble, Luna's tiny hands reaching, the sickening crack as he fell.
"Margaret doctored the tapes." Caleb paused the video. "Had the originals destroyed."
Luna's scalpel bit into the armrest. "Why show me now?"
He caged her against the chaise, bourbon-breath confession mingling with belladonna's musk. "Because you're ready to watch empires burn."
Outside, storm winds screamed. Somewhere in the city, Margaret Voss-Carter's shrill denials echoed through a lawyer's speakerphone.
Luna licked gold leaf from her teeth. "Where do we start?"
Caleb's laugh was a promise written in arsenic. "Where else? The patisserie."
The cake box sat between them, half-eaten. Not a relic, but a revolution.
Luna smiled.
Let them come.
Claire's peacock laugh curdled as Caleb's shadow fell across the macaron display. "Tell you what, gorgeous—" she purred, hip cocked against the counter, "—swap digits and this cake's yours."
Caleb's smile could've flash-frozen the Seine. "I'd rather fuck a landfill."
The patisserie's doorbell jingled. Luna emerged from the restroom, veil askew, eyes still raw from salted memories. The room pivoted—Claire's venomous smirk, Mia's dropped éclair, Caleb's predator stillness.
"Darling." Caleb's arm cinched Luna's waist, branding through linen. "Your sister was just... apologizing."
Jenkins staggered from the kitchen, cake box trembling. Gold leaf fluttered from the creation inside—Madagascar vanilla layers bleeding strawberry coulis. Luna's breath hitched. Mama's recipe, down to the edible belladonna petals.
"Page forty-two," Caleb murmured against her temple. "Your grandmother's journals."
Claire's stiletto snapped a macaron carcass. "This is bullsh—"
"Careful." Caleb's cufflink caught the light—onyx engraved with the Thorn viper. "Defamation lawsuits make excellent anniversary gifts."
—
Rain needled the Rolls' windows. Luna forked cake into Caleb's mouth, syrup gleaming on his lower lip. "Grandfather lunged at me," she said, watching arterial roads blur past. "Lost his balance. They called it my curse."
Caleb stilled the trembling utensil. "They called an eight-year-old a murderer."
"Old enough to know better."
"Old enough to survive." His thumb smeared icing across her scar. "Eat, wife. Let the dead feast elsewhere."
—
Midnight found them in Caleb's study, security footage glowing on the monitor. Grainy black-and-white images flickered—Grandfather Carter's drunken stumble, Luna's tiny hands reaching, the sickening crack of skull on marble.
"Margaret doctored the tapes." Caleb paused the video. "Had the nurse testify you pushed him."
Luna's scalpel bit the armrest. "Why show me now?"
He caged her against the desk, bourbon-breath confession mingling with belladonna musk. "Because you're ready to watch empires burn."
The door burst open.
Dr. Kael's pocket watch swung like a pendulum, hypnosis tones dripping honeyed poison. "Relax, Mr. Thorn. Let the memories—"
Caleb exploded.
The antique globe shattered against the wall. "Get. Out."
Luna stepped into the debris field.
"Miss Carter, he's unstable!" Grayson pulled at her sleeve. "The episodes—"
She shook him off. Caleb braced against the desk, tendons standing rope-like along his neck. Moonlight carved him into something feral—wolf's eyes, martyr's hands.
"Look at me." Luna's command sliced through his snarled warnings.
He lunged.
His palm connected with her collarbone—too hard, too desperate. Luna's skull cracked against mahogany, blood jewel-bright on Georgian veneer.
"Fuck!" Caleb dropped to his knees, hands fluttering over the wound. "Christ, Luna, I—"
She grabbed his jaw, forcing eye contact. "Still here."
"Should've let me." His breath hitched, cadaver-pale. "Should've run."
"And miss the show?" She pressed their brows together, blood-slick and sacred. "Breathe, Caleb. In—" her lips grazed his "—out."
Slowly, the monster receded.
—
Dawn bled through the conservatory windows as Luna stitched her own brow, needle flashing. Caleb watched, silk robe gaping to reveal the old bullet wound over his heart.
"Why stay?" His whisper rustled the poison ivy.
She knotted the suture. "Same reason you had Jenkins recreate Mama's cake."
"Which is?"
Luna's smile cut through dried blood. "We're both sentimental about beautiful poisons."
Somewhere in the city, Margaret Voss-Carter's screams accompanied foreclosure notices. In the gardens below, wolves feasted on gold-leaf cake.
Caleb captured her stained fingers. "I could've killed you."
"You didn't." She licked crimson from his knuckle. "Now fetch the Scotch. We've wills to rewrite."
The first rays of sun gilded the dagger they shared—steel still warm from mutual annihilation.
Luna smiled.
Let the games begin.