Freya was the first to speak. Of course she was—because if there’s ever a room full of people staring at me like I’d just keeled over mid-song, you can always count on her to have a sharp opinion locked and loaded.
She folded her arms across her chest, those golden eyes gleaming like twin suns narrowing down on me with the intensity of a disappointed goddess who’d just caught her favorite priest making out with the wrong idol.
"You’re going to kill yourself at this pace."
Her words cut cleaner than any blade. No yelling, no barking, no theatrics—just the blunt certainty of someone who knew exactly what they were talking about.
I wanted to laugh, to toss back some clever quip about how death and I were on a first-name basis and had shared a bed more than once, but the look in her eyes froze me.
It wasn’t her usual scorn. It wasn’t even the familiar, begrudging annoyance she wore like a crown around me. It was something else. Worry, maybe. Saints above, Freya worrying about me? Now that was almost scarier than the collapse itself.
I opened my mouth, lips already shaping into the beginnings of a smirk, but Atticus beat me to the punch.
He adjusted his spectacles with deliberate slowness, stepping forward just far enough that the lantern glow made him look like a haunted painting.
"She’s right," he murmured, voice cutting in that infuriatingly calm way of his. "You’ve been pushing yourself too far, Loona. The body isn’t meant to withstand endless strain, especially when tied so intimately to... let’s call it your particular style of alchemy." His thin smile flickered. "You’ve been burning the candle at both ends. And if you keep doing so, you’ll find there’s nothing left but smoke."
Oh, saints, he had to make it sound poetic. Trust Atticus to take my dramatic fainting spell and frame it as a bloody ballad.
I shifted, still cradled in Brutus’s lap like a fragile doll, and my instinct screamed to turn the moment into farce. To joke, to tease, to call him a withered librarian who’d keel over sooner than I would.
But I couldn’t. Not with all their eyes on me. Not with Freya’s scowl softening at the edges, not with Atticus’s lecture carrying more concern than disdain, not even with Dregan—gods help me—sitting quiet for once.
And that’s when he spoke.
"Lad," Dregan rumbled, scratching at his tangled beard with a frown, "you’re a damn fool." His voice lacked its usual booming cheer. It was quieter, almost pained, like each word had to be dragged out of his chest with pliers. "You think this place isn’t already tryin’ to kill us every bloody hour? You don’t need to help it along by playin’ hero till your body gives out."
He leaned forward, the shadows cutting deep lines across his face, and his eyes—saints, those eyes—looked almost fatherly. "You’re too damn stubborn to rest. And one day that stubbornness is gonna bury you."
I blinked at him in stunned silence. Dregan, the man who once tried to drink lamp oil on a dare, was lecturing me on health and longevity. But it wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t humor. He meant it. They all did.
And that’s when the ache started. Right in the middle of my chest. Not the usual ache—the fiery, sinful ache of lust I carried like a crown. No, this was different. Heavier. Softer. Gods damn it, it was... affection. They cared. They actually cared.
Me, the brat, the gutter rat, the bastard succubus with a tongue sharper than sense. And here they were, talking to me like family.
I swallowed, my smirk faltering into something crooked, almost shy. "I... saints above, you lot really know how to ruin a good performance, don’t you? One fainting spell and suddenly you’re all writing my obituary."
My voice cracked, light and teasing, but my chest thudded with a sincerity I couldn’t bury. "Alright. Fine. You’re right. I’ve been a brat. I push too hard. I refuse to rest. And I’ll try...I’ll try to do better." My eyes flicked between them, catching Freya’s nod, Atticus’s thin-lipped approval, Dregan’s grunt of satisfaction. "I’m sorry. For being such a nightmare. Truly."
The silence that followed could’ve been solemn, heavy, funereal in its presence. But thank every drunken god for Dregan, because he slapped his meaty hands on his thighs and barked with laughter. "A brat, aye, but you’re our brat. And if you die, who else is gonna keep us entertained with all that lip o’ yours?!"
The room broke. Freya’s scowl cracked into the faintest smirk. Atticus sighed like a long-suffering tutor whose star pupil had just drawn something obscene on the blackboard. And me? I giggled. Saints, I giggled like a child.
The sound echoed warm and fragile in my chest, and for the first time since collapsing, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
The others started filing out of the room then, giving me space to rest. Brutus’s hand began slipping away from my forehead as though to rise. Instinct flared within me—I grabbed his wrist without thought. Weak, trembling, but firm enough to still him.
My eyes lifted, pleading without words. "Stay."
For once, he didn’t argue. Just nodded, his face unreadable in the lantern light. Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself upright, my body protesting every inch until I was sitting beside him on the floor.
The ache in my limbs was fire, but his presence steadied me. I leaned my head against his massive shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.
His voice rumbled low and uncertain. "Wanna sit in my lap?"
My cheeks burned then. Saints, of all the offers. My heart skipped, my body screamed yes even as my tongue tripped over pride. I swallowed before nodding just once, heat flooding through me.
His hands moved without hesitation, those enormous arms wrapping around my waist, lifting me like I weighed no more than a sack of grain. He plopped me onto his lap, my legs draped carelessly across his thighs, my back pressed close to his chest.
And oh, saints above, I felt it. The pulse beneath me, the heat throbbing through his pants, insistent and unspoken. I ignored it—or rather tried to.
I shifted to bury my face in the thick warmth of his neck, a vague attempt to hide the wild blush dusting my skin, my breath catching as his hand slid up, strong fingers weaving gently through my hair.
I burned brighter. His chuckle rumbled low against my cheek. "Cute," he murmured. "When you blush like that it makes you look almost... innocent."
Me. Innocent. If only he knew the parade of sins marching through my skull at that very moment. I giggled weakly anyway, the sound muffled against his skin. His chest rose and fell behind me, steady and warm, my body syncing to his rhythm until the world itself seemed to fade.
My breathing quickened, his quickened too, the silence growing thicker, heavier, humming with something neither of us dared to name.
And then—oh saints forgive me—I tilted my head up. My lips parted. My eyes fluttered shut as I pulled him into me, closing the space between us with a kiss so deep, so desperate, it devoured thought itself.
His groan vibrated through me, raw and primal, his hands surging over my body. Calloused fingers brushed across my chest, teasing my nipples until shivers jolted through me. I gasped into his mouth, the taste of him, the sheer power of him overwhelming.
But then it hit—sweet, burning energy surging into me, his strength pouring through that kiss into my veins like fire. I pulled back, panting, smirking, alive again in a way I hadn’t felt in hours. Power hummed through me, my body trembling with renewed vigor.
Brutus’s eyes widened, his breath ragged, and I knew he felt the drain. I grinned, soft and smug, springing lightly from his lap despite the ache. I offered him my hand. "Up, darling. Let’s not keep them waiting."
He stared at me a moment longer, then grunted, taking my hand as I hauled him to his feet. Together we walked out, side by side, my heart still hammering with the taste of him on my lips.
We were on the second floor of the building, the sounds of work drifting from below. We stepped onto the main chamber’s balcony, the air thick with sweat and triumph. Malrick’s men—no, our men now—were gathered, clapping each other on the back, their quotas finished, their faces lit with something dangerously close to hope.
Brutus stepped forward, his hands bracing against the railing. His chest expanded, a mountain preparing to speak, and the room fell silent.
He cleared his throat then, the anticipation simmering between them.
"Alright then, it’s time for the next phase of our plan."