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I look up.

Lachlan is staring directly at me, his hazel eyes wide and fiercely bright. There is no bodyguard distance in his face now. No Scottish sarcasm. Just raw, unfiltered heat and a terrible, aching tenderness that makes my chest tighten until I can barely draw air.

"He was blind, and wrong, and he had no idea what to do with the kind of fire he held in his hands," Lachlan whispers, his voice thick with an emotion so deep it rattles in my bones. "You are not difficult to love, Vivienne. You are a tempest."

My throat locks up.

My pulse hammers against my collarbone, the Celtic knot on my wrist flaring with a sudden surge of heat that matches the light bleeding through the cuffs of his white shirt.

The space between us feels impossibly small. Too small and too far all at once.

He leans forward, just an inch, his broad chest pressing close to the edge of the island. One of his large, calloused hands moves across the soapstone, his fingers hesitating for half a second before his knuckles brush against the soft wool of my sleeve, sliding down until his thumb gently traces the pulse point at the base of my throat.

His touch is fire. Pure fire. My breath catches.

"Lachlan," I whisper. I don't know if it's a warning or a plea.

His thumb moves up, tracing the sharp line of my jaw, his calloused skin rough and warm against my cheek. His gaze drops to my mouth, his pupils dilating until the amber in his eyes is swallowed by hungry darkness.

"You asked for our story, lass," he rasps, his Scottish accent thick with need. "If they ask me how I fell for you, I won't have to lie. I'll tell them you walked into my world smelling of cheap wine and thunder, and you ruined me."

I can hardly breathe.

Above us on the plate rack, the wooden owl gives a soft, muffled hoot, but neither of us moves.

I lean into his hand, unable to stop myself, my eyes locking onto his. Every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is dangerous, that we are fake-engaged, that the Eternal Society will kill me, that he is an immortal predator and I am a mortal woman with an expiration date and a blinding headache.

None of it matters. This thing between us is pulling us together with the force of gravity.

His face dips closer. His breath washes over my lips.

And then, right behind my ear, a cold, sharp sting pricks my memory.

The bookstore.

The smell of boiling flesh. The sound of a man shrieking as his jaw dissolved into gray sludge on the floorboards.

My stomach pitches. The romantic fog in my brain shatters, replaced by the lingering, sickening horror that has been haunting me since yesterday afternoon.

I pull back, and the spell breaks.

Lachlan’s hand freezes against my cheek, his brows drawing together in immediate concern as he reads the sudden panic in my eyes. "Vivienne? Did the magic spike?"

"No," I say, my voice trembling as I pull away, tucking my hair behind my ear with shaking fingers. "No, my head is fine.I just..."

Lachlan drops his hand to the counter, his jaw tightening into that guarded mask as he sits back. "The boundaries. Aye. Forgive me, lass."

"It's not the boundaries, Lachlan," I say, leaning forward, my obsessive curiosity breaking through the lingering sexual tension. Curiosity is certainly more convenient than sex with Lachlan would be, and it’s much better than fear. "It's...” I clear my throat. “What happened in the bookstore."

Lachlan’s expression hardens, his eyes narrowing. "The vampire."

"You know, I’m not sure I’ll get used to that being said in a serious voice, but yes, the vampire." I look down at my right palm, flexing my fingers. House Midnight’s power is nullification, right? It’s supposed to be unmaking—pulling at the thread of someone else's spell until it unravels into nothing. That’s what the book said. Not… whatever the fuck that was." My nose wrinkles. “Melted vampire was not on the book’s menu.”

“Has anyone ever told you you have a real way with words, lass?” Lachlan says with a snort, but his eyes are soft, and kind, and they make me dizzy.

I force myself to keep talking.

"When I slapped that man, I didn't pull at a thread, or do anything like… whatever the fuck the nullification power is supposed to be, Lachlan. His skin didn't just lose its glamour. It boiled. He melted from the inside out." My voice drops to an urgent whisper. "How did I do that? If Midnight is just nullification, or whatever, where the hell did that kind of violence come from?"