Chapter 18
Eighteen
TALULLA
The new house still smells like fresh paint and possibility.
We’ve been here for the past week, and I’m surrounded by half-unpacked boxes in what’s supposed to be our office—a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that are slowly filling with my academic texts and Flynn’s collection of first editions that probably cost more than my degree.
Who am I kidding, just one of those volumes is probably worth more than my freshly framed piece of paper that Flynn couldn’t wait to hang on the wall.
The desk is antique mahogany, the kind with intricate carvings and hidden drawers, and right now it’s covered in my notes about Sumerian artifacts and cuneiform translations.
Tomorrow I have my first official day at the museum, and to put it plainly I’m stressing. And apparently when I’m stressing, I end up studying things I already have studied…cue to the crazy amount of papers scattered around the office.
The late afternoon light filters through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors.
Outside, I can see the garden we inherited with the place—overgrown ivy climbing the brick wall, a few roses still clinging to life despite the November chill.
It’s quieter here, tucked away on a residential street where the neighbors mind their own business and the houses are close enough for safety but far enough for privacy.
My textbooks are spread out in front of me like I’m cramming for finals all over again. The Archaeology of Mesopotamia, Sumerian Grammar and Texts, a worn copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh with my annotations in the margins. I’ve been at this for hours, my third cup of coffee going cold beside me.
“I thought when you finished your master’s you’d be done with studying,” I hear my vampire say from the doorframe of our new office.
I look up to find him leaning there, arms crossed, wearing a dark-gray sweater that makes his eyes look like polished steel. His hair is slightly disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. Tension, maybe. Or anticipation.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be done with learning.”
“I know,” he says, slowly pacing toward me. His footsteps are silent on the floor—he’s too controlled for sound, too aware of every movement. “I kind of love that about you.”
The words make warmth bloom in my chest, pushing back against the anxiety that’s been sitting there all day. “And I love that you let me be exactly who I am.”
“Of course.” He then proceeds to put down a plate with scones and a warm tea.
The scones are from that bakery down the street, the one we discovered on our second day here, still warm and smelling of butter and currants.
The tea is his way of saying I’ve had too much coffee. “Thought you might be hungry.”
My stomach rumbles right in that moment, betraying me completely, and Flynn can’t help but laugh. The sound is rich and genuine, and it cuts through my stress like a knife. “Yeah, I guess I am. Thank you.”
I reach for a scone and it’s still warm in my hand, flaking perfectly when I break it open. The butter melts on my tongue, sweet and rich, and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. No wonder I can’t focus.
“You know you already got the job, right?”
“Yes, but the museum is supposed to get a Sumerian collection and I guess, I wanted to make sure I remember enough about—”
His lips brush mine, stopping my rambling mid-sentence. The kiss is soft, gentle, tasting faintly of the blood bag I know he had earlier. When he pulls back, his gray eyes are warm with amusement. “It’s okay.”
I take a breath, letting it out slowly. He’s right. I’m spiraling for no reason. The museum hired me because of my resume, not because I can recite every Sumerian king list from memory. Though I probably can. “Any more notes?”
The question makes his expression shift, just slightly. The warmth doesn’t leave his eyes, but something harder edges in around it. Wariness. He shakes his head. “Nothing new to report, even if I might have let Cassandra know about it as well.”
The notes. My father’s notes. That’s what I’ve been saying, but the first one?
I don’t know if it was him. All just vague threats and ominous warnings that could be from the SPIA or could be from my father or could be from some random psychopath who likes to fuck with supernatural creatures.
We’re watching. We know where you are. This isn’t over.
That kind of stuff. Real comforting.
“And?”
“She thinks it could be the S.P.I.A keeping an eye on us. Not just your father, which is sorta what we already were thinking.”
I set the scone down, my appetite suddenly gone. The tea is English Breakfast, of course, no bergamot in sight, and I wrap my hands around the warm mug. “They’re threats, Flynn, it’s definitely my father.”
“They’re weird threats even for your own him.”
“I just…I feel like we always have to watch our backs, and I’m tired of it.”
The words come out more bitter than I intended.
I’m tired of running, tired of looking over my shoulder, tired of wondering when Emil Popescu is going to show up and try to drag me back to the family business or just straight up murder Flynn in front of me.
We left the States for this—for a fresh start, for a chance to just be without the weight of my family name crushing us.
Flynn is quiet for a moment, and I can see him thinking, weighing his words. When he speaks, his voice is careful. “Hypothetically, is there anything more you’d do to the house to make sure your father would stay…out?”
I tilt my head to the side and start thinking.
The house already has security that would make a paranoid billionaire jealous—motion sensors on every window, cameras covering every angle of the property, reinforced doors with locks that would take a battering ram to break through, and wards that Cassandra helped us set up that would alert us to any supernatural presence trying to cross the threshold.
But Emil Popescu didn’t train me to think like a normal person. He trained me to think like a hunter. Like someone who assumes every defense has a weakness and every weakness can be exploited.
“Emil Popescu would secure every entrance. There would be different kind of alarms, which we already have, and he would put cameras everywhere.”
Which Flynn already thought about. The cameras are hidden in plain sight—in the eaves, in the garden lights, in a decorative birdhouse by the front gate.
“Changing the alarm codes every week, replacing the cameras as much as possible, and doing check-ups, well…on a daily basis.”
He nods, and I can see him filing this information away. His expression is focused now, intense in that way that means he’s running through scenarios in his head. “And what would you do to keep your father out?”
The question makes my chest tight. Because keeping Emil Popescu out isn’t just about security systems and locked doors.
It’s about thinking three steps ahead of a man who’s been hunting supernatural creatures since before I was born.
A man who taught me everything I know and still has tricks I’ve never seen.
“I’d change the codes every day.”
He nods once again, and I can tell he’s already planning to implement this. “Anything else?”
“He would never show up alone, so I guess I’d want trusted people around.”
The words hang in the air between us. Trusted people. As if those are easy to come by in our world. Flynn has contacts, sure, and allies that owe him favors, but trust? That’s a much rarer commodity.
“I could have people walk the perimeter of the property at all times.”
The image that conjures is almost laughable—our quiet residential street suddenly crawling with security guards like we’re some kind of mob boss compound. I shake my head. “It’s all so excessive.”
“If it makes you sleep at night then no, it is not excessive.”
“We do all this and then I take the subway to go to work? It just seems ridiculous.”
Because it does. We can turn the house into Fort Knox, but the moment I step outside I’m vulnerable.
The drive and then walk to the tube station, the crowded platforms, the journey to the museum—a thousand opportunities for something to go wrong.
I’ve been trying not to think about it, trying to convince myself that we’re overreacting, that the notes are just meant to scare us and nothing more.
But I can’t shake the feeling that we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I was going to ask you something about that.”
I can already tell where this is going by the careful way he’s speaking, the way he’s watching my reaction. “No, Flynn, you’re not coming with me to work.”
He growls, low and frustrated. “Let me finish.”
“It’s absurd, we left the States, and he’s still on our asses for no fucking reason.”
“Talulla.”
The way he says my name—firm but not angry, a gentle reprimand—makes me stop. I take a breath and say, “Sorry.”
“I know you don’t want me to babysit you at work, I’d like to do things during the day as well, you know, I kinda enjoy the buying and selling of art artifacts.”
Right. Because Flynn Lancaster doesn’t just brood in our house all day waiting for me to come home.
He has his own life, his own business dealings in the art world that I’m still only beginning to understand.
Acquisitions for private collectors, authentication of pieces that may or may not be entirely legal, connections with auction houses and galleries across Europe.
He’s been laying groundwork here in London, building a network.
“What do you propose?”
“A driver.”
I narrow my eyes on him, feeling my hackles rise instinctively. “So basically an actual babysitter.”
“No, he would just drop you off and pick you up, that is all.”
“And what would this guy do while I’m at work?”
“Do his own shit.”