Nobody resumed the music after the body stopped moving.

The orchestra remained frozen near the ballroom platform, instruments lowered awkwardly while guests whispered in uneasy clusters beneath the shattered chandelier. Broken crystal still covered sections of the marble floor like scattered ice.

House staff moved carefully around the corpse.

Too carefully.

Not grief.

Containment.

Seraphina recognized the pattern immediately.

Nobody in the room seemed shocked that Matthias had died.

They were shocked by what happened to him afterward.

The black veins.

The convulsions.

The transformation.

Which meant some of them had seen it before.

That realization settled heavily in her chest as she stood from beside the body.

Lucien remained near the balcony archway speaking quietly with one of the vampire nobles. His expression had returned to calm already, though traces of blood still marked the knuckles of one hand where he’d crushed the rifle apart.

People kept their distance from him now.

Even while speaking to him.

Especially while speaking to him.

Seraphina hated noticing the difference.

She hated noticing that fear followed him through rooms like weather.

“You should leave.”

The voice came from behind her.

Seraphina turned to find a woman in deep emerald silk standing near one of the overturned banquet tables.

Tall.

Dark-skinned.

Elegant in the sort of effortless way old money often looked.

A vampire.

Definitely.

The woman’s gaze drifted briefly toward Matthias’s corpse before returning to Seraphina.

“This place won’t stay stable much longer.”

Seraphina crossed her arms loosely. “You say that like it matters to you.”

“It matters to Lucien.”

Interesting answer.

Not:

it matters to us

Not:

it matters to the court

To Lucien.

The woman noticed her expression and smiled faintly.

“My name is Selene.”

“Seraphina.”

“Yes,” Selene said softly. “I know.”

Before Seraphina could respond, raised voices erupted near the ballroom entrance.

Several vampire nobles had cornered Lucien near the staircase now, speaking over one another with rapidly deteriorating composure.

“You brought a hunter here—”

“—Church operatives inside House Vespertilio—”

“—this affects all of us—”

Lucien listened the way storms listened to trees.

Patiently.

Without concern.

One nobleman finally snapped, pointing toward Matthias’s corpse.

“That human attacked inside neutral territory!”

Lucien’s gaze lifted slowly.

“He attacked her.”

The ballroom quieted again after that.

Not because the statement sounded loud.

Because of the way he said it.

Simple.

Absolute.

Like the distinction alone justified everything that followed.

Selene sighed softly beside Seraphina.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The problem.”

Seraphina frowned slightly.

Selene nodded toward Lucien across the ballroom.

“He almost never cares who dies.”

The sentence landed wrong immediately.

Before Seraphina could examine why, Lucien’s attention shifted toward her from across the room.

Not dramatic.

Not possessive.

Just immediate.

Like he’d been tracking her location unconsciously the entire time.

That irritated her more than it should have.

She walked toward him before she could think too hard about it.

The vampire nobles parted automatically as she approached.

Some visibly uncomfortable.

Others openly hostile.

Lucien watched her carefully.

“You’re limping.”

Seraphina stopped directly in front of him.

“You killed him.”

The room went still again.

Lucien’s expression didn’t change.

“He was trying to murder you.”

“He was infected.”

“He was armed.”

“He was human.”

Something colder entered Lucien’s gaze after that.

Not anger exactly.

Weariness.

“Seraphina—”

“No.”

She folded her arms tighter against herself, pulse still too uneven from the ballroom attack.

“You don’t get to dismiss that.”

“He pulled a trigger three times.”

“He was still alive before you touched him.”

The surrounding nobles watched the argument with obvious fascination now.

Predators loved emotional bloodshed almost as much as literal bloodshed.

Lucien noticed too.

His attention shifted briefly around the room before settling back on her.

“Not here,” he said quietly.

“That’s convenient.”

“Seraphina.”

“No,” she repeated. “You don’t get to stand there acting reasonable after crushing someone’s throat with one hand.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened once.

Barely visible.

But real.

“He was dying already.”

“That doesn’t make what you did acceptable.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

The answer arrived sharper than expected.

Not loud.

Worse.

Honest.

For the first time since meeting him, irritation cracked fully through his composure.

The surrounding ballroom noise seemed to fade slightly around them afterward.

Lucien looked exhausted suddenly.

Not physically.

Morally.

Like this conversation had happened too many times across too many centuries.

“You still believe violence follows rules,” he said quietly.

Seraphina stared at him.

“And you don’t?”

“I believe people invent rules afterward so they can sleep.”

That hit closer than she liked.

Because part of her knew he wasn’t entirely wrong.

The Church hired mercenaries now.

Experimented on humans.

Buried evidence.

Created monsters beneath cities.

And still every lesson she’d ever been taught insisted vampires were the unforgivable evil.

Her thoughts felt increasingly impossible to organize around that contradiction.

Lucien watched the conflict move across her face in real time.

He noticed too much.

That was becoming a serious problem.

“You think I enjoyed killing him?” he asked after a moment.

“I think you’re too comfortable with death.”

A faint expression crossed his face then.

Gone almost instantly.

But enough.

Enough to resemble hurt.

The realization unsettled her immediately.

Because monsters were not supposed to look wounded by accusations.

Lucien glanced briefly toward Matthias’s body being removed from the ballroom floor.

“He worked for your Church,” he said quietly.

“No. He worked for money.”

“That distinction matters less than you think.”

Seraphina opened her mouth to argue again before stopping.

Because another memory surfaced unexpectedly.

The infected creature in the alley.

The hospital bracelet.

The terrified look in Matthias’s eyes before he died.

Not fanaticism.

Fear.

Lucien saw the hesitation immediately.

“Your Order didn’t send him officially,” he continued. “That’s what frightens you.”

The statement landed perfectly.

Because yes.

Exactly that.

Official hunters she understood.

Even when she disagreed with them.

But mercenaries? Contractors? Secret operations buried beneath Church doctrine?

That meant someone was moving outside the Order structure entirely.

Someone with money.

Authority.

Resources.

Someone capable of manufacturing monsters.

The ballroom suddenly felt too warm.

Seraphina turned away sharply and walked toward the shattered balcony windows for air.

Rain drifted faintly through broken glass, cooling the overheated room.

Behind her, Lucien dismissed the remaining nobles with visible impatience before following several seconds later.

Not crowding her.

Not touching her.

Just standing nearby while Prague glowed below them in wet midnight gold.

“You keep defending them,” he said eventually.

Seraphina laughed once under her breath.

Not amused.

“I dedicated my entire life to them.”

“And now?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Down below, police lights flashed faintly near the river district while civilians gathered beneath umbrellas trying to glimpse whatever disaster social media had already started lying about.

Lucien rested one hand lightly against the cracked balcony railing beside her.

“The Church has been using hired killers for years,” he said quietly. “Human contractors leave less political evidence.”

“You sound very informed.”

“I sound old.”

Rainwater slid slowly down the edge of the balcony between them.

Seraphina stared out over Prague while trying unsuccessfully to stop replaying the moment Lucien stepped between her and the bullets.

Not because he had to.

Because he decided to.

That distinction mattered more than she wanted it to.

“You still should’ve let me question him,” she said finally.

Lucien’s expression shifted slightly.

“That wasn’t going to end with answers.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”

The certainty in his voice unsettled her again.

Like someone who recognized patterns because he’d already survived them too many times before.

Behind them, the ballroom slowly resumed movement.

Cautious conversation.

Broken music.

Political recovery.

Life continuing again.

Seraphina looked toward Lucien at the exact same moment he looked back toward her.

And suddenly the distance between them felt strange.

Too aware.

Too loaded.

The memory of dancing together still lingered physically somehow.

His hand against her back.

His voice near her ear.

The way he noticed every weapon she carried without once asking her to disarm.

Lucien’s gaze dropped briefly toward the silver pistol holstered beneath the slit of her dress.

Then back to her face.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” he murmured.

“That sounds medically impossible.”

“For humans, maybe.”

Annoyed, Seraphina pulled the pistol free in one smooth motion and pressed the barrel directly beneath his jaw.

The balcony went silent.

Inside the ballroom, several nearby vampires visibly froze.

Lucien didn’t move.

Didn’t even look surprised.

Rain drifted softly between them while silver pressed against pale skin.

Seraphina’s finger rested beside the trigger.

Not on it.

Yet.

“You don’t get to decide who lives,” she said quietly.

Lucien held her gaze for a long moment.

Then, very carefully—

he tilted his head slightly closer against the barrel instead of away from it.

The movement was so subtle most people wouldn’t have noticed.

She did.

“Neither do you,” he said softly.