"Why are we doing this again?" Liam muttered, his voice more breath than sound, his eyes flicking to the shimmer of magic clinging to Seraphine like fog. He was asking her the question, but it was more aimed at himself: Why had he accepted the offer—especially to Luxury, of all places?
Seraphine hummed, eyes fixed on the floorboards as though the truth might crawl out from between them. She wasn't ready to say it—because saying it aloud would make it real. She just wanted to dance. She needed to move—needed the music loud enough… to drown the what-ifs clawing at her skull.
Liam glanced at her again. The shimmer around Seraphine had intensified tonight—subtle, yet impossible to ignore once noticed. Her magic, ever-present but usually muted, now danced over her skin like heat lightning before a storm. He didn't know whether to be worried or impressed. Probably both.
"You sure about this?" he asked again, watching the way she avoided his gaze.
"Not even slightly," she answered, her voice calm and deceptively light. "But I need to move. I need…" She hesitated, then blew out a breath. "I need to feel something that isn't… regret."
That was honest. Too honest.
So Liam let it be.
She'd tossed the invitation like a joke. He'd shocked her by saying yes this time—surprised her by accepting. She thought he'd decline again and go drink at the Troll Bar.
She'd spent the short time she had to get ready, putting her thoughts into some kind of order instead. Especially since what she'd read in "Terms & Conditions: A Practitioner's Guide to Forbidden Pacts and the Fine Print of Regret" held true: Chapter 5 confirmed that Liam's ability to channel magic wasn't just instinctual—it meant he could truly cast. However, what was written in Chapters 7 and 17—and referenced in a few other places—also held true: He was able to channel her magic and cast with it.
That meant the Earth Mother—for reasons only she would know—had taken an interest… in their bargain and -hopefully- blessed it.
Liam felt the tension before he understood it.As if the magic between them had shifted—grown roots or threads, tethered and humming just beneath the surface. His fingertips itched. The air buzzed faintly, like power barely restrained.
He didn't grasp magic the way she did. Still, even he could feel the shift—the bond was no longer metaphor or shadow. It had weight. Substance.
"Seraphine," he said slowly. "What aren't you telling me?"
Her fingers froze mid-lace. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. The book's words echoed like a curse she hadn't meant to cast.
If the bargain was blessed... and the terms poorly written...
Her chest tightened. "Chapter 43," she whispered. The air tasted of copper and ozone. "Neroghan. You knew."
The room shifted—subtle, silent—but something ancient stirred. He'd been in rooms with Neroghan before—felt more than heard his voice, seen his reflection flicker in mirrors out of the corner of his eye—but never felt him like this. Like a heartbeat echoing under the floorboards, impossible to ignore.
Neroghan's presence slid into the space like rippling glass—comforting and amused, dark with moss, and amber. "I suspected, same as you, little witch."
Her pulse faltered. The bond wasn't just active—it was acknowledged. Blessed. Not just a pact. Not just a bargain. A union.
Her stomach flipped. Her skin prickled. Her magic answered—warm, possessive, terrifyingly known. She couldn't look at Liam.
The bargain's terms were clear: she'd made him forget, in exchange for his firstborn. But since they hadn't spelled everything out, Magic and Earth Mother filled the gaps—and Seraphine didn't trust what they'd decided. Not yet.
"What kind of idiot," she breathed, half to herself, "accidentally marries a Demon Hunter?"
Her voice lifted, teasing. "You found something to wear?"
"Something," he agreed.
She stepped out wearing a matte black leather jacket that clung like a second shadow. The leather whispered under her touch—worn suede softened by time but carrying the coiled resilience of a veteran's scar. Thick, dark silken fur lined the hems and cuffs—luxurious but never ostentatious.
The collar was the showstopper: a mantle of raven feathers, layered and fanned from velvet gray to pitch black, circling her shoulders like a living crown. They stirred softly with each movement, shimmering with iridescence, as if sensing every gaze before it landed.
Liam's eyes narrowed as they scanned the coat draped around her shoulders, catching the familiar hang of the leather. He noted the stitched repairs—exactly where he remembered them: left side, across the back. His frown deepened.
"That's my coat," he said, voice low and sharp.
Seraphine didn't look at him right away. Fingers traced the raven feathers lightly, reacquainting herself. "Was," she said, finally meeting his gaze with a slow, unbothered smile. "Until I had to cut it off you to patch the gouges from that Wendigo a few months back."
"I want it back."
"You can't have it." She toyed with a sleek feather, grin widening. "Mine now."
Liam blinked. "You stole my coat."
"I claimed it," she said, unapologetic. "You bled on it. I saved your life—and fixed you and the coat better than you ever could've. Consider the scrap leather I cut off as payment for services rendered."
He opened his mouth to argue—then stopped as she turned slightly, the feather collar flaring with her movement, catching the candlelight like winged fire. She looked like sin in a feathered crown. Dangerous. Divine. Like maybe the coat had always belonged to her. Neroghan creaked and murmured something to Seraphine.
Liam blinked, his hand falling instinctively to the sheathed blade at his side. It took him a moment to recognize the presence he had felt in the room with them. How had… he'd never been able to feel Neroghan like that before. If Seraphine noticed, she said nothing as she led him out the back.
Behind her house, her garden sprawled like a fever dream—twisting vines over wrought iron, moonflowers pulsing like open eyes, and herbs whispering secrets only witches could hear. Thorned roses in unnatural shades—deep blue, ash grey, and blood black—clustered beside herbs both fragrant and forbidden. Belladonna nestled beside basil, mandragora hummed faintly beneath the soil, and wind chimes made of bone and glass sang with the breeze. The scent hit first: crushed lavender under bootsteps, soil damp with secrets, and the unmistakable metallic ghost of ancient magic left to simmer. Nothing grew here by accident.
She led him to the far wall and placed her palm upon the center of a faded mural of a gate. The air grew thick; the wall exhaled in reverse—peeling back like charred parchment to reveal glimmers and blood-slick dark. "Bit more blood and bone than Diagon Alley, huh?" she said wryly.
"This is way cooler than that," Liam replied. "It's real, not fictional—not that anyone would believe it if they saw it. They'd all be screaming "C-G-I! C-G-I!"" He stepped through.
She giggled and followed a half step behind him. Using the portals was easy for those with magic—or for those with access to the necessary charms, like Liam.
Because of the… supernatural nature of most of its clientele, club management had made arrangements for a portal to be established in an alleyway at the opposite end of the block from the club.
As always, the queue to get into Luxury snaked down the block, where both the magical and the mortal mingled as they sought to gain access to the most exclusive club in the entire city.
Bouncers with eyes like surveillance drones stood guard, policing the velvet ropes that cordoned the line. There was no posted dress code, but everyone knew the unspoken rules: designer labels, stiletto-heeled confidence, and a paparazzi-worthy face didn't hurt.
The crowd was curated chaos: influencers, finance wolves, models with blade-sharp cheekbones, tourists hoping to glimpse the interior, and locals who'd heard whispers that once you're inside, everything changes.
Conversations buzzed with impatience, flirtation, and veiled desperation. Some people try to talk their way past the ropes with name drops and fat wallets. Others wait silently, hoping the bouncers find them interesting enough.
Every so often, the line shuffled. A name is called, a couple is waved in, or someone gets turned away with a shake of the head and a flash of amusement from one of the beefcake bouncers.
Those who do get in walk with the air of the chosen, already intoxicated by the exclusivity. Those left behind stew in jealousy, envy, or denial—exactly the kind of emotional flavor Luxury feeds upon.
The air clung to skin like static—warm, charged, electric with want. The queue shimmered like a mirage of ambition: stilettos shifting on pavement, gold chain flashes, perfumes clashing in the air like dueling spells. Liam stood near the back of the queue, almost regretting his choice to come here instead of going drinking.
"This is hell in heels," Liam muttered, watching stilettos like cursed relics and suit-clad men twitch in impatience. His tone was low and graveled, more to himself than to her. "I've tracked vampires through bloodless suburbs faster than this line is moving."
Seraphine didn't answer. She just smiled at him—small, secretive. The kind of smile that suggested she already knew how this night would end.
The night pressed close around them, heady with magic and expectation. Liam watched the other clubgoers fidget and preen, but none of them moved like her. Seraphine didn't fidget. She didn't posture. She simply… was. Like the gravity of the place bent around her instead of the other way around.
Liam shifted on his feet, caught somewhere between awe and annoyance. "You realize," he said, "that everyone here either wants to be you or have you."
She tilted her head, amused. "Why, Mr. Duskwood… is that jealousy I hear?"
He snorted. "It's concern. If someone tries to hit on you, I might accidentally set them on fire."
"Wouldn't be the first time," she replied sweetly.
She looked effortlessly out of place in his—no, her—leather coat, standing there in a lineup of firecrackers—cool, quiet, and refusing to explode just to fit in.
Other women in the line eyed her with quiet suspicion. The men—well, they tried not to stare too openly. Liam saw it all and hated it. He tugged at the collar of his jacket, more irritable than usual.
"I thought we were just going out to a place with music and a dance floor," he grumbled. "I'd have worn something less... murdery."
Seraphine shrugged. "You own nothing less "murdery." The contents of your closet are a crime scene."
Fair.
From a balcony above, high above the heads of the crowd, a shadow moved. A figure unfolded above them, framed in gold light—languid as sin, sipping something red that caught the light like a slow bleed. Liam caught a faint trace of cold smoke and ash on the air, a scent both familiar and unsettling, like a burned offering from a past he couldn't yet place. His eyes narrowed as the man's gaze swept the line like a king surveying his court. Then he paused.
He saw him. Then her. Magic. A bond.
"Blessings of the Mother upon them." A gleam crossed his face—delight and recognition laced with something far older, more curious. A flick of a finger.
A second later, "You two," a bouncer called, pointing directly at Seraphine and Liam. "Upstairs. Now."
The crowd rippled—envy and disbelief slithering beneath glamoured smiles. Someone hissed, "Who the hell are they?" The silence that followed said no one wanted to find out the hard way. Seraphine only tilted her head, an elegant little bow of amusement, and threaded her fingers through Liam's.
He didn't like the way eyes followed her. Didn't like how it made his blade-hand twitch at his side.
"Come on," she murmured. "Time to meet the devil."
As they stepped forward, Liam caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye—a figure in the crowd who looked at him too long. Magic tickled his spine, crawling low at the base of his neck—a warning. He leaned toward Seraphine. "You feel that?"
"Mmhmm."
"Is this normal Luxury drama or…"
Her smile didn't falter. "This place is never normal. Drama's just foreplay."
His instincts buzzing with that strange, low hum he only felt around beings older than time. He squeezed her hand once before they walked forward, shoulder to shoulder, through the parting sea of the damned and the denied. "Awesome," he muttered. "Let's go meet Satan in satin."