Chapter 7 #3
His gaze drops immediately to Azrael’s arm around my waist. Something sharp moves behind his eyes, like he wants to remove it from me, preferably with violence.
“Harrison,” I say evenly. “How are you?”
“Better than you, apparently.” His smile does not reach his face. “Where have you been? You disappeared. No calls. No texts. People were worried.”
“I needed space. I took a trip.”
“For three weeks?” His eyes flick again to Azrael. “Without telling anyone?”
“Is this why?” he adds. “New boyfriend?”
“Harrison, this is?—”
“Azrael. A pleasure.”
Azrael extends a hand, still not releasing me.
A handshake that is not an invitation.
Harrison takes it.
His expression tightens for a fraction of a second before he forces it smooth again.
“So,” Harrison says carefully, “this is what? Your latest rebound? You ghost for three weeks and show up with some European trust fund baby?—”
“Careful.” Azrael’s voice lowers. “You’re speaking about my lover. I would prefer you do it correctly.”
The air around us shifts. Not visibly. Something felt more than seen.
Harrison steps back slightly, just enough to create distance of fully retreating. Survival instinct recognizing predator even if his conscious mind doesn’t understand why.
“Right,” he says. “Well. Enjoy the exhibit.”
Then, quieter, to me.
“Morgana, we should talk. Later. Alone.”
“She’ll be occupied,” Azrael says. “All night.”
Harrison hesitates a beat too long before turning away.
He leaves faster than he intended to.
I remain pressed against Azrael’s side. His hand still hasn’t moved.
“That was—” I start.
“Effective.”
He releases me.
Just like that.
The shift is immediate. Cold air where his presence was.
“The piece is in the new wing,” he says. “Second floor. We have twenty minutes before the formal presentation.”
“How do we get to it?”
“You tell me,” he says. “You are the thief.”
Right.
I am the thief.
I scan the room. Security at every exit. Cameras in each corner. But this is the Met. I’ve been here hundreds of times. Know the layout like my own apartment.
“Service corridor. East side. Leads to the staff elevator. We take that up, avoid the main crowd.” I meet his eyes. “We’ll need a distraction.”
“Chella can provide that.”
“Then let’s move.”
Azrael and I move toward the east corridor, unremarkable, just another couple slipping away from attention.
The door is locked. Standard keypad.
I open it in five seconds.
“Impressive,” Azrael says.
“You’ve seen me steal priceless artifacts,” I say. “Why is a keypad impressive?”
“Because most people hesitate,” he replies. “You do not.”
“Efficiency keeps you alive,” I say, stepping into the corridor. “And out of jail.”
We reach the service elevator.
I press the button.
The doors open.
We step inside.
The moment they close, everything changes.
Azrael is on me.
He backs me into the corner, one hand on either side of my head, caging me in before I can fully process the movement.
“What—”
“Camera,” he says, nodding toward the corner of the ceiling. “We are supposed to be lovers sneaking away. Act like it.”
My hands rise before I think, gripping his shoulders like I belong there. “This is method acting.”
“This is survival,” he says, face close enough that I can feel his breath. “Touch me like you mean it.”
So I do. I slide my fingers into his hair and pull him in, just slightly, just enough to sell the lie.
“Better?” I whisper.
His pupils widen. “Better.”
The elevator dings.
Second floor.
He pushes off the wall and offers me his hand like this is normal, like we are normal. I take it. The binding between us hums low and alive, a quiet thread pulling tighter every time we touch.
The new wing is empty.
Everyone is downstairs, drowning in overpriced champagne, laughing too loudly at art they do not understand. Up here, everything is silent, curated, controlled.
The mirror piece sits at the center of the room inside a glass case. Spotlit. Perfect. Beautiful in a way that feels wrong.
And completely exposed.
“That’s too easy,” I say.
“Agreed.” Azrael circles it slowly, eyes sharp. “There is magic here. Can you feel it?”
I close my eyes and reach the way he taught me, slipping into the space where shadows gather and breathe. It answers immediately.
There.
A low thrumming under the silence, like a second heartbeat layered over the room.
“Wards,” I say. “Around the case.”
“Very good. What kind?”
“How should I know?”
“Use your instincts,” he says. “What do the shadows tell you?”
I push deeper. The shadows shift like they’re waiting for permission. Suddenly, I see it. Silver threads woven through the air, circling the case in intricate patterns.
“They’ll alert security if we break them,” I drawl. “And probably electrocute whoever tries.”
“Can you disable them?”
“I don’t know how.” My voice tightens. “I’ve been doing magic for three days.”
“Yes, you do.” He steps closer. “The wards are crystallized intention. Break the intention, break the ward.”
“That is the least helpful explanation I’ve ever heard.”
“Every ward is built around a command. Alert. Repel. Punish. Find the command and interrupt it.”
Shouting echoes faintly from downstairs. Chella. The distraction has started.
“No time for debate,” Azrael says, grabbing my hand. “Channel through me. I will guide you.”
The moment our skin connects, something floods between us. Cold power, vast and precise, sliding into my system like it has always belonged there. I gasp at the force of it.
“Feel the structure,” he says. “Find the weak point.”
I do.
There, where the silver threads cross unevenly, like whoever built this was tired or careless or human enough to make mistakes.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Now push.”
We push together.