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Vivienne stares down at her hand, her mouth slightly open, completely struck dumb. For a woman who never runs out of words, the silence is deafening.

"It's..." She swallows, her throat bobbing as she traces the edge of the stone with her thumb. "It's absurd. It’s ridiculous. It probably costs more than the building my old apartment was in."

"It suits you," I murmur, my thumb smoothing over her knuckles before I force myself to let go. "Now come on. The pasta is getting cold."

The restaurant is warm, dark, and smells of roasted garlic, crushed tomatoes, and melting butter. Low candlelight flickers across dark mahogany booths, white linen tablecloths, and heavy velvet curtains that block the street view entirely.

The hostess takes one look at my kilt, takes a longer look at the lethal, velvet-clad woman on my arm, and doesn't ask a single question. She leads us straight to a secluded corner booth flanked by high leather backs.

"This is ridiculous," Vivienne whispers the second we sit down, unfolding her linen napkin and shaking her head. "Two weeks ago, I was eating dry protein bars and crying over my student loan interest. Tonight, I'm wearing an archival velvet gown, armed with dwarf daggers, sporting a five-carat rock, and sitting across from a giant in a kilt."

"You forgot the part where you bought your old department for ten million dollars," I remind her, a smirk pulling at my beard.

That gets a genuine, wicked little laugh out of her. The tension around her eyes softens, the sharp, defensive posture melting away into the plush leather.

"God, that was good." She sighs, leaning her elbows on the white tablecloth. "I still think about Hobson’s face at least twice a day. The sweat on his upper lip alone was worth the compound interest."

"You balanced the ledger, lass. Never feel guilty for putting a thief in the dirt."

The waiter arrives, setting down a basket of crusty, steaming bread, a dish of herbed olive oil, and a small earthenware crock of dark clover honey that he places directly in front of me with a respectful nod.

"Did you bribe them?" Vivienne asks, eyeing the honey with amusement.

"Shifter etiquette," I say, tearing off a warm hunk of bread and slathering it with honey before chewing. "The owner’s mother was a selkie from the Hebrides. They know what to feed a bear."

I pour her a glass of the heavy Tuscan red the waiter left on the table. She takes it, sipping slowly, letting the wine wash away the chill of the walk.

"I've been thinking about what you said yesterday," she says quietly, her tone shifting, losing the sharp sarcasm. Her fingers drop to the edge of the table, tracing the rim of her glass. "About monsters. About having to be one to survive the Council."

I stop chewing, watching her carefully. "And?"

"In the bookstore... when I melted that vampire’s jaw off." She looks up, her dark eyes searching mine across the candle flame, raw and uncertain. "And in the courtyard, when my blood woke up that Sanguine grimoire. Do you think... do you think whatever is inside my blood makes me one of them?"

The vulnerability in her voice cuts straight through my armor. She survived six years of academic gaslighting, foster homes, and isolation, and underneath all the spite and sharp jokes, she’s still terrified that she’s inherently broken.

I reach across the table—I don't give a damn about professional boundaries—close my large, scarred hand over hers, trapping her fingers against the white linen.

"Listen to me, Vivienne," I say, my voice low, gravelly, and absolute. "House Sanguine takes power by bleeding others. They take life to hoard it like dragons on a pile of gold. You pulled that magic to defend yourself. You used your inheritance to fund health insurance for starving students and humiliate a liar."

I squeeze her fingers, feeling the living brand hum between our wrists.

"You aren't a monster, lass. You have teeth, aye. But teeth don't make you evil. They just keep you alive."

Her throat moves as she swallows hard. She stares at our joined hands, her eyelashes casting long shadows over her cheeks in the flickering candlelight, before she gives my fingers a tight, fierce squeeze back.

"You're entirely too good at this pep-talk thing, MacTavish," she whispers, her voice slightly thick. "It’s ruining your grumpy aesthetic."

"I have an image to maintain," I rumble, though the corner of my mouth betrays me.

"Clearly." She pulls her hand back reluctantly as the waiter arrives with two steaming plates.

For the next half-hour, we don't talk about death, poison, or ancient vampire lords.

She hums with delight at the browned butter, stealing two shrimp off my plate when she thinks I'm not looking, and makes fun of my refusal to share.

Watching her across the table—flushed, beautiful, full of life and stubborn fire—it hits me like a blow to the ribs.

I’m not just sworn to protect her. I would burn every Great House to the ground, tear down the Veil, and drown the Council in their own blood before I let anyone take her from this earth.