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Heat rushed through Rosine’s veins. Sander. Aryeh. In the week since their promise, the Lyon’s Den had slipped back into its usual rhythm—wagers humming, cards snapping, even a few snakes slithering in after midnight for adventurous gamblers—but whenever she could, she stole a kiss from Sander in some quiet doorway, a breath of them snatched between orders. They were together now, and that togetherness had put new wind in her lungs. But their promised “another time” had not yet come. The thought of stepping into a carriage in a gown like this, of finding him waiting… her heart tripped into a run.

Bridget clapped her hands, delighted. Marta smirked knowingly.

But before Rosine could lose herself entirely in giddiness, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice cut through the room, crisp as a blade.

“Do not mistake this gift for frivolity.”

The words fell heavy, shattering the moment like glass.

Rosine’s fingers tightened on the gown’s silk. The excitement in her chest tangled with dread. She had dreamed, only hours ago, of Sander’s kiss. Of more than his kiss. But Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s warning was a reminder: the world outside was not softened by romance. Danger prowled still. They’d wed in a few days and Sander would keep her safe, but they stayed close to the Lyon’s Den.

Yet—Sander would be waiting right now.

And she would go to him.

The room above the bakery smelled faintly of polish and new beginnings. Sander had spent the week stealing hours he didn’t have—scrubbing, patching, making sure no draft would cut through her nights. He had walked through stalls and flea markets until his feet ached, hunting down every detail he thought might matter until he’d found a Gugelhupf mold that looked like the one Rosine had described. Rosine had risen, like the dough in the mold. And it was time for her to have her own again.

Now it was ready.

He’d give Rosine not merely his heart but the sign with her name on it. I want her to have all her dreams come true.

A new bed stood against the far wall, modest but sturdy, dressed in crisp linens. A small table bore a bottle of dark wine, a wedge of cheese, and a small clutch of grapes. And in the center of it all, gleaming despite its age, lay the Gugelhupf mold—dented in places, but real, heavy. He had nearly shouted when he found it, tucked beneath a stack of brass pots at a street market.

And on the windowsill, in a plain jar, a cluster of red roses breathed their perfume into the room. Not perfect roses. But roses he had chosen, stem by stem, because he wanted her to walk in and know that someone had thought only of her.

He paced once, twice. His pulse hammered like he was heading into battle, not waiting for the woman he loved. But this wasn’t a fight. This was a surrender.

The clatter of hooves rang against the cobbles, sharper than usual in the quiet of morning. Aryeh stilled where he stood by the counter, a rag in his hand, polishing the brass Gugelhupf mold one last time. He hadn’t expected nerves to seize him—he’d faced mobs, knives, fire—but now his palms were damp, his throat dry.

He moved to the window. A dark carriage had pulled up, finer than most that passed this narrow street. The door opened, and the driver helped down a woman in a gown the color of pomegranate seeds in sunlight.

For a heartbeat, he thought she was a stranger—too elegant, too untouchable to belong here. Her hair was half-pinned, curls trembling loose at her neck. Lace gloves she didn’t need at this hour clung to her wrists. The morning light struck her cheeks, already flushed.

For a moment too long, she stood outside, her head up as if she’d inspect the sign hanging over the door. Rosine & Wolf.

The shop isn’t open yet, he meant to say. His guard’s instinct rose like a reflex, brusque, automatic. He even stepped toward the door with the words forming.

But she lifted her chin, her mouth curving faintly.

“Good morning,” Rosine said. “The sign is…” she wiped a tear from her cheek.

His chest tightened so hard it nearly broke him.

Not a stranger. Never a stranger.

He opened the door wider before he could think better of it. The cool air rushed in, and with it, her scent—warm bread and rosewater. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, drinking her in, like a man starved too long for something he’d never dared to name.

“Rosine,” he managed. His voice was rough, as though the word had scraped its way out.

Her eyes, luminous and uncertain, swept over him. He realized belatedly that he’d stripped down to shirtsleeves, his coat and cravat gone. He had wanted to meet her unarmored. Now he felt bare in every way.

He offered his arm. It wasn’t a ceremony. It was a necessity—if he didn’t touch her, he thought he might fall.

Her gloved hand slid into the crook of his elbow. Too small. Too delicate. He wanted skin, warmth, the truth of her.

He led her inside, closing the pale green door behind them, the bolt sliding into place. The air held the scents he’d prepared—wax, roses, wine—and she forgot to breathe.

She took one step, then another, until she saw the room fully.