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"Of course not." Diego's smile becomes more cautious. "Though I confess, working closely with someone of Serenity's reputation would be... personally satisfying."

I bite back a grin at the way Darius's hands flex behind my chair. Months ago, that territorial display would have infuriated me. Now it sends a warm hum through our bond that I pretend not to notice.

"Mr. Cozel, my standard rate is seven hundred a day plus expenses. I'll need a full list of the affected establishments to begin." I slide a blank contract across the desk with crisp professionalism. "We can begin tomorrow."

Diego signs without further flirtation, clearly deciding that his continued physical well-being outweighs the appeal of pushing Darius further.

After he leaves, Darius locks the office door and pivots, his eyes simmering in possessive heat. "Did he really say 'personally satisfying'?"

"He was simply being polite."

"He was being incredibly suicidal."

I stand from behind the desk, crossing to where he leans against the doorframe. "You know, most business partners don't growl at potential clients."

"Most business partners aren't bonded to the most infuriating woman in Chicago."

I poke his chest. "That's a funny way to say I’m brilliant and devastatingly attractive."

He catches my hand and presses his lips against my knuckles. The gesture is so tender, so different from the snarling territorial wolf of five minutes ago, that my throat tightens unexpectedly.

He tugs me toward the door. "Let's get out of here. Kellan's holding a table at that Italian place on Clark, and he claims he will order without us if we're late again."

I grab my jacket and follow him into the hallway, pausing to glance back at the office one last time. The consultation chairs sit ready for tomorrow's clients while the filing cabinets reverberate with the stable protective wards I built myself.

Months ago, I was hiding in motel rooms, terrified that everyone who got close to me would end up bleeding. Now I have an office with my name on the door and a wolf shifter who gazes at me like I’m the most precious thing in his life.

I lock the door behind me and slip my hand into Darius's as we step into the Chicago evening. The city buzzes around us as it rebuilds itself one day at a time.

Pausing, I look up at the night sky. "Hey, Morvane, I have something to tell you."

He stops and turns to me. "What is it?"

My smile is soft and genuine. "I'm really happy."

The confession tumbles out simple and unadorned, nothing like the sharp sarcasm or dark humor I usually hide behind. His fingers lock around mine, and when I glance up, the look on his face makes every scar and moment of terror completely worth it.

"I feel the same way, Rene." His voice drops to something rough and private.

38

DARIUS

Iscroll through the purchase agreement for the third time, checking every clause about property boundaries and supernatural disclosure requirements. The house sits on two acres outside the city—far enough from Chicago's chaos for privacy, close enough that Serenity won't feel isolated from her work. The seller's attorney insisted on additional wards against magical interference, which doubled the paperwork but tripled my peace of mind.

My office has transformed over the past few months. Gone are the sparse furnishings and military-grade security equipment. Now client files stack neatly on shelves, and the walls display certificates from the reformed supernatural council recognizing Morvane Protective Solutions as an official security contractor. We've moved beyond mercenary work into something resembling legitimacy.

The council security overhaul keeps us busy. Restructuring protocols to protect all paranormal races equally instead of favoring whatever faction holds the most political power requires constant negotiations. Yesterday, I mediated a dispute between vampire executives and fae entrepreneurs over meeting room temperature controls. Last week, it was werewolf pack representatives arguing with witch covens about scent-masking policies during joint sessions.

These are strange domestic problems for a reformed mercenary.

The office door swings open without a knock, which means Kellan's arrived with his usual disregard for professional boundaries. His boots echo against the hardwood as he approaches my desk, dark hair tied back in a casual knot that would have earned him kitchen duty during our pack days.

"Council meeting ran late again?" He drops into the chair across from me, moving with his usual fluid grace—his shifter metabolism having finally healed his chest injuries to a full one hundred percent. His eyes already observe the papers scattered across my desk. "Please tell me you didn't agree to provide security for another inter-species mixer. The last one ended with three noise complaints and a vampire hanging from the chandelier."

"That vampire was drunk on fae wine. Hardly my fault he couldn't handle—" I pause as Kellan's facial features turn from casual interest to barely contained glee. "What?"

He leans forward while reading the document header upside down like he always does—years of reviewing contracts over my shoulder turned it into muscle memory. "Property deed and purchase agreement. Darius Morvane and Serenity Crowe, joint ownership. Look who's gone domestic."