The morning sunlight spilled gently over Rosebury, casting a golden haze over the elegant inn and its adjoining café stand. Birds chirped, vendors hawked soft bread from nearby stalls, and the fragrance of roasted coffee beans filled the air.
Just outside the Finer Inn, Elowen and Ewan Blair sat at a café table, two steaming cups before them.
"You know," Ewan said with a soft smile, "I never imagined this morning would be so… pleasant."
Elowen returned his smile politely, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
Ewan continued. "You've grown into a remarkable woman, Elowen. Strong, poised. It's something I've noticed for a while."
She blinked, trying to find the right response. His tone had shifted—his smile was still kind, but something in it now lingered on the edge of hope.
"I… thank you, Lord Blair."
He tilted his head. "Ewan, please."
She hesitated. "Ewan."
"And what about you? How's the job at the manor treating you?" he asked gently.
Elowen shifted in her seat. "It's… work. Nothing too extraordinary."
"Not even the company?" he pressed.
She smiled faintly. "Company isn't always something to speak about."
Inside the inn, Julian Ravenshade, seated with a cup of bloodwine before him, sipped once and narrowed his eyes.
"Never knew men could be so nosy," he muttered.
---
Meanwhile, in a narrow alley a few blocks away, Johnnie and the detective had tracked down the lead.
They approached two figures—one male, one female—cloaked in long, traveler's coats. Their posture was cautious but not aggressive. The pair stood near a carriage, one of them holding a sealed crate.
Johnnie nodded.
The detective circled left.
Then, with precision, they struck—grabbing the male trader from behind and pressing a blade discreetly to his side.
"Shit! Let me go!" the man hissed, but Johnnie quickly silenced him.
"I'm just a petty trader!"
"Trading blackstones isn't petty," Johnnie muttered, tying the man's wrists behind his back.
"I deliver to the market, I swear! I'm a local—just a wholesa—"
Crack.
Johnnie knocked him unconscious with the hilt of his dagger before he could finish.
The detective rifled through the man's bag, tossing aside herbs and documents until he held up a folded parchment.
"A permit," he said. "Greystone local market deliverer."
Johnnie stared. His jaw tightened.
"We've been fooled."
The detective furrowed his brow. "He's not the one?"
"No," Johnnie said, voice low. "Someone planted him. Gave us a decoy to chase."
"Shit."
---
Back at the café, Ewan leaned toward Elowen, his voice softer now.
"I won't pretend I've always been this open," he said. "But I know what I want and I'd like to let you know about it.""
She tilted her head. "And what's that?"
"You," he said simply.
Elowen opened her mouth, but no words came. Her heart stuttered. Not out of romance—but because someone else occupied her thoughts.
Ewan noticed her hesitation but said nothing more.
Just then, a well-dressed lady approached. Her cloak was navy, and she held a beautifully patterned handbag in one hand.
"Good morning, Lord Blair," she said with a practiced smile.
"Lady Miren," Ewan greeted with a polite nod. "This is Miss Elowen Grantham."
Elowen stood and offered a small curtsy.
The woman smiled—tight, almost forced.
"I love your handbag, my lady. It looks exquisite," she said, her tone silky.
"Thank you. Yours is beautiful too."
But something about the woman felt… off. Her presence made the hair on Elowen's neck rise. Her eyes were too dark, her smile too smooth. Coldness clung to her like perfume.
"Would you like to see it up close?" the woman asked, her voice too sweet.
Ewan's expression stiffened. He must have masked his expression almost quickly.
"No, thank you, Milady," Elowen said, stepping back slightly.
Lady Miren's smile didn't falter. "Very well. It was lovely meeting you, Miss Grantham."
She extended her hand.
Elowen accepted it briefly.
As soon as they touched, Elowen felt it—a flicker. Cold. Like water. Like a ripple beneath her skin.
"I'll escort her to the carriage," Ewan said. "Just a moment."
Elowen nodded. "Of course."
She stood still, watching them head toward the corner. Her gaze wandered briefly to the storefronts before she turned around—
And slammed into something solid.
Not a wall.
A man.
Tall. Unmoving.
Her eyes lifted, breath caught.
Julian.
He held her elbows, steadying her easily. His touch was light, but firm. Unmistakable.
"My Lord," she gasped. "You startled me!"
He smirked. "Shit," she whispered and quickly covered her mouth. "Sorry!"
His gaze sharpened. "Seems you're eager to be kissed again, Grantham."
She flushed crimson. "No, Sire—no, Julian."
The first time she said his name. But it trembled out of her lips like fear.
He didn't like that.
His smirk faded into something colder.
"It'll take a while for you to get used to calling me that," he said, stepping closer, his voice dipping. "But…"
She took a cautious step back. "But what?"
He moved in, hovering close enough that she could hear the subtle inhale he took.
"But you could always… practice in another way."
Her heart beat so loudly she feared others might hear it.
"I didn't know I was complicated, wildflower?" he asked, eyes flickering down her face.
She looked away, heat rushing to her cheeks. "I didn't mean it…"
Her voice was soft. Embarrassed.
"I see." He stepped back, just slightly, breaking the tension. "Have a lovely morning, wildflower."
He reached out and took her hand.
She expected a kiss.
But instead, he held it to his face—and smelled it.
His expression changed instantly. A flicker of something… darker.
Predatory.
But only for a second.
He masked it well.
"Expecting something, Grantham?" he smirked.
"I thought… I…"
Before she could finish, a loud shout erupted from across the street. A clatter of hooves and a carriage door slammedthg
She turned to look.
A horse had reared up, startled, near the curb. Townsfolk shouted. A stack of crates had fallen.
When she turned back—Julian was gone.
Vanished.
Just like that.