Chapter 16
ARK
Ark sat alone in the offices of Aegis & Ash. The sun was barely up over East Angelene, its light pale and watery through the frosted windows. It caught the edges of maps, the broken seals on old correspondence, the spines of books he’d read and reread this morning and still couldn’t make sense of.
He cradled a mug of pine brew and sipped absentmindedly, barely registering the liquid was lukewarm at best. His other hand hovered over the white tiger lily beside him—today’s Flora Note from Cassia, still smelling like butter and cinnamon sugar.
He’d retraced her words twice before writing his response. Then, another flower had arrived—a blooming magnolia, its pale petals pink and dusted with frost, smelling like caramel. He caught it before it drifted too far, his thumb grazing the soft bloom as it unfurled a message in gold script:
Compensation may be arranged. Terms include patience, praise, and possibly a tart. Don’t get used to the gratitude. People say I can be difficult on some days.
He chuckled and picked up his quill.
I’ve wrestled with curses and tamed artifacts that bite when provoked. I think I can handle one stubborn baker. But I’ll reserve judgment until I taste the tart.
Not long after, a gloriously large orchid arrived—dusky violet, cradled in a wisp of gingerbread-scented mist. He caught it midair as it hovered near his shoulder, petals curling open as if responding to his touch.
Lucky for you, I enjoy a challenge. The tart will be earned, not promised.
Ark tapped the flower absentmindedly, then set it down beside his inkwell. Earned, not promised. Were they talking about a tart, or . . . trust?
He picked up his quill again.
Earned it shall be. Tell me what you consider a worthy payment. I’ve been told I make an excellent taste-tester. And I can be very patient when properly motivated.
A few heartbeats later, another lily spiraled in—large and pale pink, a bloom fit for a king.
Patience is a promising start. Proper motivation, however, remains to be seen.
Ark set the lily down, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. He wrote:
Proper motivation. I was afraid you’d say that.
I smell a challenge—and, like you, I’ve never been very good at walking away from one.
The next flower arrived a few minutes later. A white amaryllis.
A challenge, then. I’ll be curious to see how you meet it.
When I need motivation, I reach for a strong black tea—or coffee, if I’m feeling reckless. I’d offer you a cup, but you don’t drink caffeine.
Ark’s smile deepened. He dipped his quill again, his reply coming quickly.
That would be too much motivation for me. You wouldn’t want to see me so . . . motivated.
Even as he sent his raven away, he knew: He was walking a thin line.
It was too easy to have this natural banter with Cassia, but the caffeine comment had been a risk.
Had she finally figured out what it did to his kind?
Or had she asked Lilibeth? With her demon heritage, the half-Amoret might know.
He didn’t think Cassia discovered it, not yet. But she was curious.
And curiosity, in her hands, was a dangerous thing.
With a small smile, he crossed to the marble credenza against the side wall.
A small obsidian vase sat there, waiting.
He placed all five flowers inside, cupped his hands above them, and murmured a few low verses in Daemaric.
A thin veil of silver light pulsed over the blooms. The petals firmed, the scent of cinnamon suspended in time like perfumed mist held in a glass jar.
Later, he’d take them home to join the rest of the flowers.
He returned to his desk, dipped his quill, paused, set it down, and picked it up again. The words hovered—not the easy banter he’d been trading all morning, but something entirely new to him. His hand moved before he could stop it.
I stayed at my office last night. My house felt too empty after yours. I’ve never thought much about what a home should feel like until now.
So thank you. For showing me.
P.S. I even miss the looks from your judgmental cat.
Ark leaned back in his chair, the last echo of the message still humming through him. He hadn’t meant to say as much as he had. Yet, he hadn’t edited it either.
He wasn’t sure when the shift had started.
Maybe it was last night at the auction, watching her stand unshaken while his world tried to tear her apart.
Or when she’d sat beside him, tending his wound.
Or the way she’d listened to him—no judgment, just the recognition of someone who understood what it meant to carry something alone.
He exhaled slowly, letting his head tip back against the chair. Should he have stopped these messages while they were still a game, before they became something else?
But even as the question formed, it answered itself: it was already too late. Maybe it had been since the night she stood in front of The Ivory Club and dared a room full of demons to look away.
He’d been telling himself it was nothing more than strategy—an arrangement, a performance with an expiration date.
But one didn’t preserve someone’s flowers in an enchanted vase because of a contract.
One didn’t lie awake in an empty office because her house felt more like home than anywhere one had ever lived.
This hadn’t been a game for a while.
Had it ever been?
His gaze drifted to the vase. Five flowers, suspended in silver light, still perfuming the air with the scent of pastries. Minutes stretched. Her reply should’ve arrived by now, trailing spice and wit. But none came.
He told himself she was busy. The bakery. The children. A dozen tiny hands tugging at her, a hundred small demands that had nothing to do with him.
But some small, unreasonable part of him wondered if he’d finally said too much—and a smaller, more terrifying part wondered what it could be if she felt . . . the same.
He wiped his face, knowing he ought to focus. There was paperwork on properties he needed to review, three artifacts that had been waiting a week to be identified. But instead, he rose and paced.
When a few minutes later a flower still hadn’t come, he sighed and headed for the side hall.
All three of them kept rooms here—carved out from the old, converted building with its rustic brick walls and protective wards.
Caius had claimed the corner loft, Rhodes the attic.
Ark chose the room at the back where the light came in softest and no one ever knocked unless it mattered.
He showered carefully around his bandaged hand, then dressed in the spare clothes he kept for nights like this. When he emerged from his room, he caught himself glancing at the desk—and forced himself to look away.
Still no flower.
Not that he expected one. He didn’t even know why he kept checking.
A week ago, he might’ve laughed at the absurdity of it. Now, the enchanted flowers felt like the only real colour in his world of carefully curated grey. A small smile ghosted across his lips. He didn’t miss the irony.
A demon who unraveled curses for a living—who traced old magics through abandoned places and spent years coaxing silence from houses that screamed—now kept blooms that smelled of baked goods and a comfort he’d never allowed himself to want.
He forced himself to sit and work. Around ten, the door swung open, slicing through the quiet.
“What in the Four Ancestors’ names is that divine smell?” Caius’s voice drifted in first, silken and amused. “Ark? Did you summon breakfast?”
“I smell cinnamon.” Rhodes quickened his pace and appeared around the corner. “And brown sugar.” He slowed to a stop, his gaze landing on the array of blooms clustered neatly inside the vase. “These weren’t here yesterday.”
“They’re Cassia’s magic missives,” Ark told them.
Caius tilted his head, studying the soft shimmer of spellwork. “Inscribed blooms that smell like confections,” he murmured. “How elegant.”
He leaned in, gaze narrowing in appreciation. “And they’ve been stabilized.” He straightened, pale eyes focusing on Ark. “You preserved them.”
His tone held the kind of awe that rattled Ark.
“It’s an enchantment archive,” he replied, the defensiveness creeping in despite his efforts. “For research purposes.”
Rhodes snorted. “Love notes, you mean.”
“They’re not love notes. They’re strategic correspondence. For the engagement.”
“The fake engagement?”
Ark opened his mouth to confirm it, but the word ‘fake’ coated his tongue like curdled milk.
He didn’t answer.
Caius’s gaze slid over his damp hair, the freshly changed shirt. “You didn’t go home.”
“I didn’t feel like it.”
“The auction didn’t go well?”
Ark looked at him. “We got a million gildens for the Lens.”
Caius didn’t speak for a moment. “Good, but you know that’s not what I was asking.”
Ark stared at the preserved petals. He could leave it at that. A professional report. But the memory of Cassia’s posture, straight and unyielding under the weight of sneers, rose swift and punishing.
He dragged a hand through his hair. “It was worse than I expected. Dinner was manageable, but during the break . . .” He exhaled, the air leaving him in a rush.
“It was supposed to be pretend. Just a performance. But when she stood there, taking it—every insult, every look of contempt—and didn’t so much as flinch . . .”
His eyes dropped to his bandaged hand. He had wanted to tear the room apart. It had taken every ounce of his control not to shatter the marble floor beneath their feet.
Heavy silence followed. Then came the sound of Rhodes cracking his knuckles, sharp in the quiet. Ark looked up to see him rubbing a fist against his palm.
“Alright,” Rhodes said. “Who do we need to beat up?”
Ark let out a rough laugh. “This isn’t that kind of fight.”
“It’s always that kind of fight,” Rhodes countered. “Some people only understand one language.”
When Caius spoke, his voice was quiet. “We’ve known each other for twenty-five years.” His gaze drifted back to the preserved flowers. “Not once have I seen you like this.”