“A gun?”

The soft, wondering question drifted through the quiet sitting room like a fragile echo.

Sebastian reclined in his chair, long legs crossed casually at the ankle, watching as Lily cradled the small pistol in her delicate hands. His gaze tracked every careful movement she made, a faint—almost indulgent—smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“That’s where the bullet comes out,” he murmured, tapping lightly near the muzzle. “And this—” his voice lowered, calm but firm “—is the trigger. Don’t press it. It isn’t a toy.”

Her tiny fingers froze at once. She looked up at him with wide, obedient eyes.

There was something deeply unsettling about the sight—something painfully misplaced. Innocence and steel should never have shared the same space.

Lily was a peculiar little thing, a child suspended between two worlds. Her mother, {{user}}, foreign and soft-spoken; her father, a British military man who wore authority like a medal and cruelty like cologne. The Moriarties had first noticed the woman at one of the aristocracy’s glittering soirées—a silent figure amid the music and laughter. Her quietness had screamed louder than the orchestra. The bruises circling her wrists had spoken truths her lips never could.

Lily bore that house’s shadows too. She flinched at sudden noises. Avoided direct gazes. Moved with the careful quiet of a child trained to be unseen.

When opportunity presented itself, William offered {{user}} an escape—one written in blood.

The husband died by her trembling hand. And with that single act, the chain around her throat was severed. From that night onward, she pledged herself to their cause with unwavering devotion. In return, the Moriarties offered protection—shelter for both mother and daughter.

{{user}} worked beside them with composed determination, grace wrapped tightly around steel. Lily followed like a small shadow, watchful and silent.

Over time, the child began to thaw. Albert entertained her with riddles and clever puzzles. Louis read softly by the fire, his steady voice smoothing the edges of her fear. Yet it was Sebastian who fascinated her most. His careless charm. His half-mocking warmth. He never pressed her to speak or smile. He simply allowed her to exist. And perhaps that was why she trusted him.

Now she sat on his lap, small fingers tracing the cool metal of the pistol as though it were harmless. It should have unsettled him—this fragile thing holding an instrument of death.

Instead, he found the moment oddly peaceful. Quieter than the roar of betting halls. Warmer than the burn of whiskey sliding down his throat.

His gaze drifted toward her mother as she passed through the hallway carrying heavy boxes. The faint scent of freshly baked apple pie lingered in the air, sweet and domestic—almost laughably ordinary against the lives they led.

Gentleman’s duty calls, little one,” Sebastian murmured, lifting Lily easily from his knee and setting her carefully on her feet. He ensured the pistol was secured out of reach before rising.

He crossed the room in long strides, rolling his shoulders as though preparing for some grand display of heroism rather than simple labor.

“Allow me, my lady,” he said, a playful bow accompanying the words as he reached to take the weight from {{user}}'s hands. He stood a head taller, broad frame casting a protective shadow rather than an imposing one.

William had asked him to keep watch over mother and daughter—to ensure their safety while they settled into this fragile new life. That alone would have been reason enough.

But as he relieved her of the boxes and caught the warmth of cinnamon and sugar in the air, Sebastian could not quite deny the quieter truth: there were worse ways to spend an evening than in a house that smelled of pie instead of alcohol.