Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Charity
Midnight finds me slipping through the side gate by the roses, heart hammering with nerves as well as excitement.
Earlier tonight, I'd texted Mother from the main house: Staying at the cottage to work on a piece.
Don't wait up. Her reply had been terse—Very well—which means disapproval wrapped in acceptance.
She never argues when it comes to my art.
I changed before sneaking out—jeans, the warm sweater from a recent shopping trip, and black boots that let me move quietly. Practical clothes for whatever adventure Draco has planned. Nothing that screams "Pembroke heiress."
Draco's already waiting, a shadow separating from darker shadows, and even in the dim light I can see his smile.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Almost." I grab his hand. "One second. I need to check on Lucky."
We detour to the cottage first. I need to see him one more time, to anchor myself before stepping into the unknown.
Lucky watches from the sofa, chin on the towel Draco used to cover the upholstery. Draco scratches the spot behind his ear. "Guard the castle," he tells him, and Lucky's tail thumps once like a promise.
Draco pulls something small from his pocket and presses it into my hand. "Take this."
It's a canister of pepper spray, compact enough to fit in my palm.
"Just in case," he says quietly. "Probably won't need it, but better to have it."
I slip it into my jacket pocket, its weight both reassuring and slightly terrifying. He's protecting me even as he's teaching me to protect myself.
"Tell me the first rule," I whisper. "How do I survive out here?"
Draco's hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the knit of my sweater. "Rule one: stay close," he says. "Rule two: match my pace. If I stop, you stop. If I move, you move."
Close isn't a problem. Not tonight.
Later, as we descend into the Lexington line at 77th, the station gasps a deep-bellied roar of wind. The air smells like hot metal, old rain, and something electrical. Lights flicker. A saxophone wails a mournful scale from somewhere I can't see.
People flow around us, a river of coats and backpacks and liquor. He angles me to the inside of the stairs, body between me and the swell of commuters, palm steady on my waist. My heart's an unruly drummer in my chest, equal parts nerves and giddy, stupid joy.
"Keep your bag in front," he murmurs at my ear, breath warm. "Wrist through the strap. Feet shoulder-width on the platform so you can't get shoved off balance."
"I thought you were a magician, not a bodyguard."
"Magicians are just thieves who decided to be honest about it," he says, mouth tipping. "It's all misdirection and hands. The city runs on both."
The platform is a different ecosystem entirely. A woman in scrubs naps sitting up, chin on her chest. Two teenagers share a single set of earbuds and try not to smile. A man in a paint-splattered jacket clutches a bouquet of grocery-store flowers like it's a trophy he fought for.
A violinist plays under the peeling green column numbers—something aching and beautiful that makes my throat tight. People drop coins without looking. Draco pauses, fishes change from his pocket, and lets it ring the bottom of the case. Not much, but the gesture feels… reverent.
"Why?" I ask softly.
"Because he's working," Draco says. "And it matters."
The train bursts into the station in a howl of wind and squeal of brakes.
Doors yawn open; we're swept inside. Metal poles, scratched windows, a row of ads promising better skin, better teeth, better life.
The seat is plastic-cold through my jeans.
Across from us, a toddler in a puffy jacket kicks his boots against the bench in time with the carriage's rattle.
The train jerks; my shoulder bumps Draco. I don't apologize. He doesn't move away.
"Breathe through your mouth if the smell bugs you," he says, voice low enough for just me.
"If someone asks for money, you don't have to answer.
Look busy—phone, map, me. Never fumble with your purse.
" A pause, then lighter: "Bonus rule: don't get hypnotized by the tile work. Easy way to miss your train."
"It's beautiful," I admit, then flush when he smirks like he's caught me staring.
The train barrels downtown, local stops ticking by—68th, 59th, Grand Central, Union Square. Each station is a small world unto itself, people flowing in and out like a tide.
When a tall man stumbles and starts shouting nonsense words at the space above our heads, Draco's arm comes around me.
Not dramatic, not possessive. Just sure.
I can feel every place we touch: hip, ribs, the skimming line of his forearm.
The frantic parts of my brain go quiet, the volume knob twisted down to zero.
"Eyes here," he says, tipping my chin toward his mouth—dangerous—and then higher, to the route map above the door. "See the green line? That's us. Six train all the way down. Numbers tell you local or express, but the color tells you which track."
"You're good at this."
"Survival's my party trick," he says, like it's a joke. It doesn't sound like one.
When we surface at Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall, the night hits with a colder edge.
Streetlights smear gold over leaves and stone.
The bridge rises ahead like lace and steel—the gothic arches, the web of cables, the river moving dark and relentless below.
Wind grabs at my hair and turns my sweater into a sail. I can't seem to stop smiling.
"We're really doing this," I say, breath flying away in little clouds. "I'm outside. At night. On purpose."
"Want out?" he asks, and his eyes search mine, serious now.
"Not even a little."
We walk the wooden planks, heels ticking.
Couples drift by with linked fingers. Runners thud past with headlamps bobbing.
A cyclist sneaks into the pedestrian lane and earns three creative curses in three languages.
In the distance, the skyline lifts its bright jaw—steel and glass, teeth bared at the sky.
A man with a paper cup shakes it at passing feet. "Spare change?" His voice is rough as the sidewalk.
Draco stops. Counts the bills and coins in his palm. There doesn't seem to be much. He pours all of his change into it. Keeps two MetroCards, some bills, and a few quarters.
"That's almost everything," I whisper. My cheeks heat with shame, not for him but for me. "I didn't even think to bring money," I admit. "I've never needed to."
"Can't pay the MTA in charm," he says lightly. "Gotta keep enough to get us home."
The beggar nods like a king accepting tribute. "Bless you, kid," he says.
Heat rises behind my breastbone, sharp and aching. Draco doesn't look at me. Doesn't make a show of it. Just takes my elbow and guides me around a puddle.
"Thank you," I say.
"For the puddle?" He grins.
"For being… you."
"Terrible idea," he says, but the corner of his mouth won't behave.
We pause at a cart that smells like ginger, garlic, and scorched oil.
Draco orders noodles from a man who barely lifts his eyes from the wok.
The container warms my hands. Steam curls up and fogs my face; I learn the art of chasing a noodle with a splintery chopstick while laughing at myself.
He teaches—brief, patient—how to brace the bottom stick and move the top like a hinge.
Sauce dots his knuckles. I want to lick it. That thought is scandalous and would probably slay my mother where she stands in her marble kitchen.
We lean against the railing and eat with the river hustling below. The city hums like a living thing. My chest aches with a feeling I can't name, but it isn't fear.
He finishes first and tips his head toward a wire bin near a lamppost. We walk over together.
He drops his empty tray in; mine clatters on top. "No evidence," he says, deadpan. "City rule number two—leave a place better than you found it."
"Okay, teacher," I say, heart too big for my ribs. "What's the next rule?"
"Don't miss the good stuff while you're busy being careful."
We drift back to the railing, fingers curling around cold metal.
Wind threads my hair; I tuck it behind my ear; it springs free immediately.
Draco watches me fight the losing battle, then steps into my space and gently gathers the front strands, smoothing them back, tucking them into my collar like it's the most ordinary intimacy in the world.
My breath goes unreliable.
"That's cheating," I manage. "Hair has a mind of its own."
"So do you."
He doesn't move away. My pulse knocks everywhere at once. The bridge hums like a tuning fork under my palms.
"Tell me to back up," he says, voice low. "I will."
"Don't," comes out before caution can stage a coup.
"Okay." He lifts one hand, fingers warm against my jaw, thumb painting a line along my cheekbone like he's memorizing the map of my face.
Darkness makes his eyes look almost black.
Wind shifts his shirt against his chest; I catch a flash of scar at the edge of his sleeve.
It makes something fierce and protective spark in me.
This time, I kiss him first.
I rise on my toes and press my mouth to his before courage can fail me. He makes a sound—surprise, maybe pleasure—and then his hands are in my hair, angling my face to his, and the kiss turns hungry in a way the first one wasn't.
Less careful now. Less testing. His mouth moves against mine with purpose, coaxing mine open, and when his tongue sweeps across my lower lip, I gasp into the kiss. Heat floods through me, different from before—darker, deeper, more demanding.
My hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer. The city falls away until there's just wind and salt and the hard line of his body when I press against him, the bridge humming beneath us like a living thing.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, his eyes are almost black in the darkness.