“I think you’re quickly becoming my new favorite customer, Captain Vistarii.” Ysabeau smiled. “Give me just a moment, and I’ll get these wrapped up for you. Will you be needing a bag, or a gift box for the lucky lady?”
“Oh, please. I am most certainly the lucky one here, Miss Ysabeau,” I replied with a charming smile, counting out my coins to include a healthy tip for her complimentary tailoring services. “Especially as I’ll get to see your lovely curations on an even more lovely display soon enough.”
Though I was offering the shopkeeper the very best of my behavior in gratitude, my blood remained heated, still seething internally over the encounter with Neandra. I hadn’t even cared about her utter disregard for my consent in the end—it was the implication that she would try to approach Arken that left me on edge.
Ysabeau smiled and tittered to herself as she turned to pull a gift box down from her shelves.
“Actually, do you accept private courier pick-ups, by any chance?” I inquired.
“Certainly,” she nodded. “And direct delivery from couriers of our own, should you require it.”
“Excellent,” I said.
I wouldn’t be headed home just yet.
Still feeling rather incensed, I found that I truly couldn’t help myself.
Instead of returning to the townhouse and patiently awaiting Arken’s return, I began to walk in the opposite direction—toward her apartment.
I took a very intentional route, albeit not the most efficient one, because I knew it was the one she’d defer to. I was well acquainted with Arken’s preferred paths throughout the city, and enough time had passed that I was certain she’d had enough time to pack and was likely already on her way back to me.
And thank the fucking gods for that. I needed that woman to bring me back down to earth before I did something out of anger that I’d regret.
It only took a few short minutes of striding through the Shadows before I was forced to stop in my tracks and question if this hadreallybeen the best of my decisions today.
Because there she was, in all of her gently ethereal glory, glowing in the sunlight and a touch more exposed than I would have liked. With a canvas duffel at her side, Arken was now wearing a pretty little sundress that fell justbarelyhalfway past those ample thighs, and a pair of knee-length brown leather boots. But it wasn’t her outfit that had given me true pause.
It was the fact that she was peering over the wares of a florist’s stand, participating in an animated conversation with the young man behind the stall, who was laughing at somethingshe’d said, and staring at her tits like she was his own Source-blessed fantasy come to life.
Easy,the weakening voice of reason in my head warned.
Still, I prowled forward, stalking down the cobblestone street until my hand met the small of her back.
She turned to me and smiled brightly before returning to the conversation, seeing as I had arrived mid-sentence. “Arken Asher, yeah, I live just down the way. And I don’t believe I caught your name, Mister…?”
“F-Farroway,” the man stuttered, brown eyes widening and flicking back and forth between us both. “Seth Farroway.”
He pointed awkwardly up at the hand-carved wooden sign that hung above his stalls, the one that readFarroway Flowers.
“It’s uh, the family business,” he tacked on, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.
“They’re all quite lovely. You must cultivate them well,” she said. I followed her golden gaze to where it had landed, atop a collection of freshly cut peonies in a rather unusual shade—pale pink, but variegated with splashes of dark red, making the petals look as though they’d been dipped in blood. Hauntingly beautiful.
“S’nothing, really,” the florist said, still glancing between the two of us.
“This is my friend, Kieran,” she explained.
I stiffened, running my left hand up her back while the right one flexed at my side, instinctively wanting to reach for the weaponry I’d left at home. My jaw tightened as I gave Seth a very long, very pointed stare.
“Kieran Vistarii,” I offered tightly, extending a hand. “Captain of the Guard. It’s a pleasure.”
And I am not her fucking friend.
Clearly intimidated, the florist shook my hand awkwardly before he dropped his gaze, hunting for something in the mess of his arrangement tables.
“Ah, likewise, likewise, sir,” he mumbled, keeping his head low. “And thank you, erm, for your service.”
I tried not to roll my eyes, and I wasn’t all too bothered to notice that his hands were trembling, just a little bit, as he picked up a pair of shears.