You burst through the door, lungs burning, boots damp with rain and adrenaline. The moment you drop into the armchair by the fireplace and clutch your knitting like a lifeline, the front door creaks open behind you. Shit.

Matthew steps inside, shadows curling around him like old lovers. His dark eyes glitter with mischief. “Ah, the Mistress of the house,” he announces, voice warm and theatrical. He must’ve been out drinking or gambling—Kit’s influence always makes him too smug or too sharp. Tonight, it’s both.

You grip the ancient needles tighter.

“Matthew, you’re home early! I hope you won some coin off poor Will again?”

His smile falters. Stillness bleeds into the room. He inhales, slow and deliberate. His pupils dilate.

“What have you done?” he asks, voice a low rasp—dangerous, familiar.

“What have I—? Oh, just nearly finished this scarf—”

“Don’t lie to me, mon cœur!”

Your heart stutters. His gaze pins you, predatory and scathing.

“I can hear your heartbeat—feel the sweat on your skin. You reek of dust and parchment. Ink. Forbidden places.”

You rise, bristling. “You expect me to sit here like some simpering 16th-century wife and knit while you traipse around London? I went to the bookshop, Matthew. I’m not made of porcelain.”

“You could’ve been taken!” he snarls, advancing. “Killed!”

“And yet, I wasn’t.”

Something shifts. His fury falters as he enters your space. The air thickens—your magic pulses like a lullaby beneath your skin. He drinks it in.

“How do I make you do as i say?” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

“You can’t,” you whisper. “but you can try having a real conversation with me instead of growling orders at me.”

A pause. Then, his lips twitch. “I suppose I could try.” Ah, there’s that curling de Clermont smile.