I sat cross-legged on my bed, the leather-bound book resting against my thighs. Bellas stood near the wardrobe, awaiting instruction.

  Yesterday had been… complicated.

  The bath with Aria. The three hours I’d lost to her touch and her laughter and the way the water sloshed over the tub’s edge when she pulled me under for another kiss.

  I’d gone to the library afterward. Finally. Aria had dozed off at one of the reading tables around two in the morning, her head pillowed on her arms. I’d kept working.

  And I’d found something.

  Not a solution. Not a gate or a contract or a summoning ritual that would send me home. But a starting point.

  Today had been worse than yesterday’s lectures, somehow. Professor Tiamatha—the busty redhead who taught Practice of the Flesh I—had spent two hours describing the nervous systems of humans, elves, and dwarves in excruciating anatomical detail. She’d projected images. Three-dimensional magical diagrams that rotated slowly in the air, highlighting nerve clusters and blood flow and exactly which pressure points triggered involuntary muscle spasms.

  Aria had sulked through the entire lecture.

  “This is so boring,” she’d whispered at one point, leaning over to poke my arm. “I thought we’d get to actually do something.”

  “Good thing we didn’t,” I’d muttered back.

  She’d given me a look. “You say the weirdest things sometimes.”

  Tiamatha had mentioned the seminars would be more “hands-on.” I’d made a mental note to find an excuse to skip those entirely.

  Aria had vanished after classes. Something about running an errand for her mother—the boutique owner who apparently used her daughter as a political pawn. She’d waved and promised to be back before dinner.

  Which left me here. Alone with Bellas and the book I’d retrieved from my spatial ring.

  The book Meridia had raised an eyebrow at when I’d requested it.

  Foundations of Internal Cultivation.

  A human text. Written for human mages trying to develop their mana pools from scratch.

  “Planning on teaching the livestock?” Meridia had asked, her voice flat.

  “Something like that,” I’d replied.

  She’d handed over the book without further comment. Just that slight narrowing of her eyes that suggested she thought I was wasting my time.

  Maybe I was.

  But if I couldn’t feel mana—couldn’t sense the energy that every demon supposedly wielded as naturally as breathing—then I needed to start from the absolute beginning. And the beginning wasn’t demonic instinct.

  It was mortal cultivation techniques.

  I looked up at Bellas. He stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back. Waiting.

  “Go take a bath,” I said.

  He blinked. “Mistress?”

  “A bath. You don’t need to stand there while I study.”

  His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. Confusion, maybe. Or just the reflex of a man who’d been conditioned to expect cruelty disguised as kindness.

  “Of course, Mistress.” He bowed and moved toward the bathroom.

  The door closed.

  I exhaled.

  The room settled into silence. No Aria humming off-key. No Bellas’s quiet breathing. Just me and the book.

  I opened it.

  The first page displayed an inscription in neat, precise script:

  To those who seek the path of cultivation: know that mana is not a gift, but a discipline. What follows is not theory, but practice. What you build within yourself will define the limits of your power.

  I turned the page.

  Chapter One: The Comet Stage—Establishing the Flow.

  My eyes scanned the text. Diagrams illustrated a stylized human torso with lines of energy circling the heart in a single, looping orbit. Instructions followed: meditation postures, breathing techniques, mental exercises designed to capture the mana naturally produced by the body before it dissipated into the atmosphere.

  I frowned.

  Succubi didn’t need this. According to Morrigan’s lecture, we were born at the Nebula stage—mana already diffused throughout our entire bodies. We skipped the foundational steps entirely.

  But I couldn’t feel it.

  Couldn’t sense the energy supposedly flooding my nervous system. Couldn’t channel it during alchemy. Couldn’t manipulate it for anything beyond the glamour that activated on instinct.

  So maybe I needed to start where humans started.

  From nothing.

  I flipped to the next page. More diagrams. Instructions on how to sit, how to breathe, how to quiet the mind and focus inward.

  Locate the warmth at your centre. Not heat, but presence. The faint pulse of your own existence.

  I set the book down on the bed beside me and adjusted my position. Straightened my spine. Rested my hands on my knees, palms up.

  Closed my eyes.

  Breathed.

  * * *

  I tried the breathing exercise again. Closed my eyes. Straightened my spine. Focused on the centre of my chest.

  Nothing.

  I held the position for five minutes. Then ten. The book said beginners should start with short sessions—fifteen minutes maximum—but I could already feel the futility settling in my bones.

  I opened my eyes. Let my hands drop to my knees.

  Tried again.

  This time I focused on the rhythm of my breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The text said to visualize the energy flowing with each exhale, to imagine capturing it before it dissipated into the air.

  I visualized. I concentrated. I tried to feel the “warmth at my centre” the instructions kept mentioning.

  Still nothing.

  Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

  I dropped my hands and stared at the far wall.

  Maybe there was something broken with me. Some fundamental incompatibility between a human consciousness and a demonic body. Maybe when my soul—or whatever the hell I was—ended up here, it severed the connection to the very thing that made this body function.

  The glamour worked. The spatial ring worked. But those were instinct. Reflex. I didn’t do anything to make them happen.

  I needed more than reflex if I was ever going to research summoning circles, scrying rituals, or dimensional gates. I needed to understand magic from the ground up. And I couldn’t do that if I couldn’t even sense the fuel that powered it all.

  I picked up the book. Flipped back to the breathing diagram.

  One more time.

  I closed my eyes. Inhaled. Held it. Exhaled.

  Focused inward.

  Nothing.

  I exhaled through my teeth and set the book down.

  Fine. Maybe I just needed more time. Maybe this wasn’t something I could brute-force in a single afternoon.

  I’d try again tomorrow. And the day after that. However long it took.

  Because I needed this. Not just to find a way home, but to survive the moment Magecraft moved from theory into practice. The second Professor Morrigan asked us to cast something, my cover would shatter.

  I glanced toward the bathroom door.

  Bellas was still in there. It had been over an hour.

  I frowned. Stood. Crossed the room and knocked twice.

  “Bellas?”

  “Yes, Mistress?”

  His voice came from just beyond the door. Close. Alert.

  I opened it.

  He sat in the tub, water up to his chest. Steam rose around him in lazy curls. The water was still hot—hotter than it should’ve been after this long.

  “I was keeping it warm,” he said. His tone was neutral. Obedient. “In case you wished to join me.”

  Of course he was.

  Because that’s what a succubus would’ve done. Finished her studying, walked into the bathroom, and slid into the tub without a word. That’s what Aria would’ve done. Hell, Aria wouldn’t have bothered with the studying in the first place.

  “Dry yourself and get out,” I said.

  He blinked. “Did I do something to displease you, Mistress?”

  “No.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You didn’t. Just—dry off and leave the bath.”

  “Of course.”

  He stood. Water sluiced off his skin. He reached for the towel folded on the nearby stand, confusion flickering across his face before he smoothed it away.

  I turned and walked back to the bed. Sat down. Stared at the book lying open beside me.

  He’d been sitting there. Waiting. Almost two hours.

  My mind supplied an image before I could stop it: me stepping into the tub. The water hot against my skin. Bellas’s hands on my shoulders. His mouth at my neck.

  I shook my head.

  The hunger stirred. Not much. Just enough to notice the difference from yesterday. A faint pull beneath my ribs. A whisper of interest when I thought about his hands, his mouth, his—

  Stop.

  I exhaled and stared at the book again.

  Bellas had been waiting. Just like I’d been searching.

  And then it hit me.

  He hadn’t been looking for me. He’d been there. Present. Waiting for me to notice him.

  The mana was the same.

  I’d been searching for something new. Trying to find it the way a human would—a mortal who had to learn perception from scratch. But I wasn’t mortal anymore. This body wasn’t human.

  The mana wasn’t hiding. It was already there.

  I just had to stop filtering it out.

  I closed my eyes.

  Didn’t search. Didn’t visualize. Didn’t try to feel warmth or flow or presence.

  I just… noticed.

  It took a few minutes. But then I felt it.

  Not a new sensation. Not something foreign or intrusive.

  It was already there. Inside me. Outside me. Everywhere.

  I’d been feeling it all along. My brain had been filtering it out the way it filtered out the hum of distant machinery or the smell of a room I’d been sitting in too long. Background noise. Irrelevant.

  Except it wasn’t irrelevant.

  It was everything.

  I couldn’t describe it. Not in words that made sense. How do you explain sight to someone who’s never seen? The closest I could come was that it felt like a combination of touch, smell, and taste all at once. A texture. A flavour. A pressure.

  The mana inside my body felt different from the mana outside. More intimate. Closer. Like the difference between my own breath and the air around me.

  Now that I’d noticed it, I felt stupid for missing it.

  It was so obvious.

  The bathroom door opened. Bellas stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was damp. His expression uncertain.

  “Mistress?”

  I opened my eyes and looked at him.

  The mana was still there. I could feel it. His. Mine. The faint trace of it in the air between us.

  “Go to bed,” I said.

  He nodded and moved toward one of the empty beds across the room.

  I exhaled. Let the awareness settle.

  Finally.

  * * *

  I closed the book and set it aside. The mana was still there—a constant, impossible-to-ignore presence now that I’d noticed it. Inside. Outside. Everywhere.

  I needed to test this.

  Glamour seemed like the obvious choice. I’d already used it without thinking, back when Lilith first asked me to disguise myself. If I could do it subconsciously, it should be easy enough to repeat while paying attention to how the mana moved.

  I started simple. Skin colour. Red seemed appropriately demonic.

  I closed my eyes and focused. Visualized my skin shifting from pale to crimson. Imagined the change spreading across my arms, my chest, my legs.

  Nothing happened.

  I opened my eyes.

  My skin was red.

  I blinked. Looked down at my hands. Turned them over. Definitely red. The same shade as the imp I’d kicked into a wall.

  But I hadn’t felt the mana move. Not even a flicker.

  Was this something else? Some other power that wasn’t tied to mana at all?

  I frowned and reversed the change. Focused on my normal skin tone—pale, almost luminous.

  The red faded. My hands returned to their usual color.

  Still no mana movement.

  I exhaled. Focused harder this time. Tried to hide my wings.

  The mana shifted.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  I felt it. A pull from my internal reservoir. The energy flowed outward, wrapped around my wings, and they vanished from view. I reached back with one hand. My fingers passed through empty air where the wings should’ve been, but I could still feel them folded against my back.

  So that one worked.

  I brought the wings back. The mana moved again—unwinding, releasing.

  Why didn’t the skin change use mana? I tried again. Blue this time. A deep, unnatural cobalt.

  The mana moved.

  My skin turned blue.

  I stared at my hands. Changed them back to normal. The mana shifted again.

  What the hell was different about red?

  I turned my skin red again. This time I paid attention to everything.

  The change happened. My skin darkened to crimson.

  No mana movement.

  But something else did happen.

  The hunger stirred.

  Not much. Not the clawing, desperate need I’d felt before feeding on Bellas. Just a faint pull beneath my ribs. A whisper of want that hadn’t been there a second ago.

  I kept my skin red and waited.

  The pull grew. Slowly. Incrementally. Like a leak in a pipe I couldn’t see.

  I changed my skin back to normal.

  The drain stopped. The hunger settled back to its baseline—still present, still waiting, but not actively increasing.

  I turned my skin red again.

  The hunger resumed its slow climb.

  “Shit.”

  I changed back immediately. Sat there staring at my hands.

  Red skin cost something. Not mana. Something else. Something tied to whatever reservoir I’d been feeding from when I drained Bellas.

  I’d just burned through a day. Maybe two. However long I’d thought I had before the hunger became unbearable again, I’d just shortened it by testing a stupid cosmetic change.

  I pressed my palms against my thighs. Forced myself to breathe.

  No more experiments with red skin. Not until I understood what the hell I was tapping into.

  Across the room, Bellas shifted in his bed. His breathing stayed even. Asleep, or pretending to be.

  I stared at the ceiling. Counted the seconds until my pulse slowed.

  At least I could sense mana now. That was progress. One less thing to hide when Morrigan started asking us to cast in class.

  But the red skin… that was something else entirely. Something I didn’t understand.

  And I’d just cost myself time I couldn’t afford to lose.

  * * *

  I turned my head toward Bellas’s bed. He lay still, arms at his sides, facing the ceiling. Like a soldier at rest.

  “You waited in the bath for nearly two hours.”

  His eyes opened. “Yes, mistress.”

  “Keeping the water warm the entire time.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow. “You don’t need to be so—” The word escaped me. Obedient felt wrong. Dedicated sounded condescending. “You should treat yourself better.”

  Bellas sat up, expression unchanged. “I have everything I could wish for, mistress.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I pushed myself upright, feet touching the floor. “You don’t need to serve me at every step. Think about your own happiness sometimes.”

  “There is nothing that brings me more happiness than serving you and Mistress Aria.” His voice carried no inflection. Statement of fact, not performance.

  I studied his face. Searched for the lie.

  Found nothing.

  “Is that what they trained you to say, or what you actually think?”

  “I have accepted my fate, mistress.” He shifted, sitting cross-legged now. “You and Mistress Aria are the best I could wish for. Even as property, you treat me with care. A hopeless sinner like myself couldn’t ask for anything better.”

  Sinner. The word stuck in my throat. He’d tried to save his people. Made a desperate gamble that backfired. That wasn’t sin—that was tragedy weaponized by a demon’s cruel precision.

  But saying that wouldn’t help. Wouldn’t change anything.

  “We’ve known each other four days.”

  Something shifted in Bellas’s posture. Shoulders back, chin lifted slightly. Almost like pride. “I was taught to recognize my mistresses’ needs with a glance. Four days is more than sufficient to understand what kind of mistress I serve and how best to fulfil her desires.”

  My curiosity won. “What kind of mistress do you think I am?”

  Bellas met my eyes. No hesitation. “You are kind when you do not need to be. You ask questions as though my answers matter. You create distance between yourself and what you want—as though desire itself troubles you.” He paused. “But when you stop fighting yourself, you become magnificent. Commanding. Certain. The succubus who fed on me knew exactly what she was and embraced it completely.”

  My breath caught.

  “You are dangerous, mistress. More than Mistress Aria, though she would never see it. You wear hesitation like armour, but beneath it…” His gaze held steady. “Beneath it, you are a predator who has chosen not to hunt. I do not understand why. But I recognize mastery when I see it.”

  I sat there. Absorbing his words.

  Commanding. Certain. Predator.

  That wasn’t me. That was the body taking over. Instinct overriding thought.

  Wasn’t it?

  My tail curled against my thigh. I forced it still.

  “You’re wrong.” The words came out quieter than I’d intended. “I’m not—that wasn’t me.”

  “As you say, mistress.” Bellas lowered his gaze, the pride vanishing from his posture. “I exist to serve your pleasure, whatever form it takes.”

  He believed it. Every word he’d said. This was what he saw when he looked at me.

  Not Liam Dawnstar, trapped and desperate. Not a human struggling to maintain identity while wearing a demon’s skin.

  A succubus. Powerful. In control. Playing some elaborate game he couldn’t decipher.

  I wanted to correct him. Explain the truth.

  But the truth would shatter his certainty. And he’d already been broken enough.

  “Get some rest, Bellas.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  He lay back down. Eyes closed. Breathing evening out within seconds.

  I stayed sitting, staring at my hands in the dim crystal light.

  * * *

  Commanding. Certain. Predator.

  The words circled back. I turned them over, examined them from different angles. Tested them for weakness.

  Bellas had watched me for four days. Four days of interaction, observation, analysis. He’d been trained to read his owners—their moods, their desires, the unspoken demands they wouldn’t articulate. That training had been beaten into him through methods I didn’t want to imagine.

  And he’d concluded I was dangerous.

  Not because I’d hurt him. Not because I’d threatened him.

  Because when I stopped hesitating, I became something else entirely.

  The memory surfaced unbidden. Me, straddling him. Giving orders. Taking what I wanted without question or doubt. The hunger had stripped away every layer of rationalization and left only—

  I cut the thought off.

  That wasn’t me. That was the body’s autopilot. Instinct hijacking conscious thought.

  Except Bellas had described it as mastery. As though I’d been in control the entire time.

  My tail shifted against my thigh. I watched it curl, uncurl, settle.

  You wear hesitation like armour.

  Did I?

  A puff of smoke materialized above my bed.

  I jerked back, heart hammering. The smoke dispersed, leaving a folded piece of parchment floating in the air. It drifted down, landing on the sheets beside me.

  I stared at it. Picked it up.

  Unfolded.

  Central Gardens. East gazebo. 20:00.

  Reply if timing conflicts.

  —I.L.

  Isabella. Right. She’d mentioned arranging a meeting time after the fight with Valentina’s group.

  I glanced at Bellas. Still motionless, breathing even.

  The clock on the wall read 17:40. Two hours and twenty minutes.

  Aria hadn’t returned yet. Her errand for Sombra—whatever it involved—had taken most of the afternoon.

  I looked down at the parchment, then at my hand. At the mana I could now feel moving beneath my skin like a second circulatory system.

  Sending a reply shouldn’t be difficult. The mechanics were simple enough—intent, structure, destination. I’d watched Aria do it half a dozen times.

  I grabbed a quill from my desk. Wrote quickly.

  I’ll be there. Aria’s still out—running an errand for her mother. Hoping she’ll return in time.

  —L.N.

  I folded the parchment. Held it between my palms. Closed my eyes.

  Mana responded immediately. It flowed through my fingers, wrapping around the paper, saturating the fibbers. I pictured Isabella—her ice-blue eyes, her precise posture, the way she held herself like every movement was calculated three steps ahead.

  The parchment vanished in a curl of smoke.

  Gone.

  I opened my eyes. Stared at my empty hands.

  That had been… easy.

  Too easy.

  I’d barely thought about the structure. My body had simply known what to do.

  Muscle memory again. This body’s knowledge bleeding through, making magic feel as natural as breathing.

  I stood. Crossed to the window. Gehenna’s red sky cast everything in shades of crimson and shadow. Distant screams echoed from somewhere in the city. Background noise now, barely registering.

  Beneath it, you are a predator who has chosen not to hunt.

  I pressed my forehead against the glass.

  Two hours until the meeting.

  Plenty of time to prepare. To rehearse the role I needed to play.

  To remind myself who I actually was.

  * * *

  The door banged open.

  I straightened, turning from the window. Aria stormed in, wings flared, tail lashing behind her in sharp, angry arcs.

  “Ugh!” She dropped her satchel beside the wardrobe, fingers already working at the laces of her corset. “My mother is such a bitch.”

  I watched her yank at the knots, frustration radiating from every movement.

  “What happened?”

  “What happened?” Aria spun toward me, eyes flashing. “I spent six hours—six—standing behind a counter while she attended some ‘crucial meeting’ with House Cinder. Six hours watching snobby purebloods finger silk they weren’t going to buy, answering stupid questions about hemlines and enchanted thread.”

  The corset came loose. She threw it toward her bed.

  “And you know what the best part is?” Aria’s hands moved to her skirt. “She didn’t even tell me why I had to cover for her. Just sent a wisp saying ‘emergency, watch the shop, don’t disappoint me.’” Her voice pitched higher, mocking. “Like I’m her employee instead of her daughter.”

  I leaned against the window frame. “Sounds exhausting.”

  “Exhausting doesn’t cover it.” Aria kicked off her shoes. “I’m going to bed. Wake me next week.”

  She started toward the beds.

  “Not so fast.”

  Aria paused, glancing back. “What?”

  “We’re supposed to meet Isabella today.”

  Her expression went blank. Then—“Oh, shit.” She pressed both palms against her face. “I totally forgot. When is it?”

  I glanced at the clock. “Nineteen forty-five. We have fifteen minutes to get to the Central Gardens.”

  “What?” Aria’s hands dropped. “Fifteen minutes? Lily, why didn’t you—”

  “You just walked in.”

  “Right. Right.” She spun toward the wardrobe, yanking it open. “Okay, I can work with this. I’ll just—”

  “Aria.”

  She pulled out a dress, held it up, frowned.

  “Aria, we don’t have time for a full wardrobe change.”

  “I can’t show up to an alliance meeting looking like I just crawled out of retail hell!” She tossed the dress aside, reaching for another. “Isabella Lilitu doesn’t do casual. If I show up in wrinkled clothes, she’ll think we don’t take this seriously.”

  I pushed off the window. Crossed the room in three steps. Grabbed Aria’s wrist.

  “Pick something. Now.”

  She stared at me. Her tail curled, uncurled.

  “Fine.” She snatched a purple blouse from the wardrobe, paired it with clean black trousers. “But if she judges me for looking basic, I’m blaming you.”

  “Noted.”

  Aria changed faster than should have been possible—buttons fastening, fabric smoothing against her skin through pure muscle memory. She ran fingers through her hair, fluffing it back into deliberate disarray.

  “Good enough?”

  I nodded.

  She grabbed her satchel. “Then let’s go before I remember how much I hate being rushed.”

  * * *

  The east gazebo materialized through the garden foliage at precisely 19:59. Isabella stood beneath the pavilion’s arched entrance, silhouetted against hanging crystal lanterns that cast her shadow long across the flagstones.

  She checked a pocket watch as we approached. Snapped it closed.

  “Punctual,” Isabella said. “Good.”

  Aria’s tail flicked. “We aim to please.”

  “Do you?” Isabella’s gaze moved between us. “Then you’ll find this arrangement beneficial.”

  I stopped at the gazebo’s threshold. “What arrangement, exactly? You mentioned protection. I need specifics.”

  Isabella tucked the watch into her coat. “Direct. I appreciate that.” She gestured toward the garden path. “Walk with me. The gazebo lacks privacy.”

  She moved past us without waiting for acknowledgment. Aria glanced at me, eyebrows raised. I nodded.

  We fell into step behind her.

  Isabella led us down a winding path away from the central gardens, through an archway carved with sigils I didn’t recognize. The campus buildings grew sparse. Residential towers replaced academic halls.

  “Regular coordination will be necessary,” Isabella said. “Group projects begin next month. Professor Scarlet’s geopolitics simulation runs the entire semester. We’ll need consistent strategy sessions to maintain our competitive advantage.”

  Aria jogged two steps to pull even with Isabella’s shoulder. “Strategy sessions?”

  “Weekly meetings. Perhaps twice weekly during critical project phases.” Isabella’s pace didn’t slow. “I’ve drafted a preliminary schedule—”

  “Wait, wait.” Aria waved both hands. “Hold on. Do we really need to be all formal about this? Can’t we just, like, hang out together? You know. Like friends.”

  I nearly tripped.

  Isabella stopped. Turned.

  Aria stood there, hands on her hips, tail curled in a relaxed spiral. “I mean, we’re supposed to be allies, right? Allies who actually like each other work better than people just checking off meeting requirements.”

  The silence stretched. Isabella’s expression remained neutral—ice-blue eyes studying Aria with the same clinical precision she’d use on a chessboard.

  Then she laughed.

  Not a polite chuckle. An actual laugh, brief but genuine.

  “You’re right.” Isabella resumed walking. “We certainly can.”

  The path opened onto a cobblestone courtyard. A three-story building rose ahead, windows glowing amber. Isabella produced a key.

  “My residence,” she said. “More comfortable than conference rooms.”

  The entrance hall stretched wider than it should, given the building’s exterior dimensions. Marble floors reflected light from wall-mounted crystals. A staircase curved upward to the left.

  And directly ahead, a figure approached.

  Tall. Heavily muscled. Green skin marked with scars. Amber eyes dropped to the floor as he bowed.

  “Mistress,” the orc said. “Welcome home.”

  “Brutus.” Isabella removed her coat, held it out. He took it. “We have guests. Prepare refreshments.”

  “Of course, Mistress.”

  My gaze caught on the leather harness crossing his chest. The minimal loincloth that covered almost nothing. The—

  I looked away.

  Too late. The image had already registered. Size. Shape. The comparison my brain made without permission to Bellas, clinical and automatic.

  Predator.

  Bellas’s voice in my memory, naming what I was becoming.

  I focused on the wall. Studied the sigil etched above a doorframe. Anything except the heat crawling up my neck or the traitorous catalogue of possibilities this body wanted to supply unbidden.

  “Something wrong, Lily?”

  Aria’s voice, close. Teasing lilt underneath the words.

  I shot her a look. “No.”

  Her grin widened. “You sure? You seem distracted.”

  “Shush.”

  She bumped my hip with hers, tail winding playfully around my ankle before releasing.

  I wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. The scrying ritual waited in my notes—diagrams copied, incantation memorized. I could sense mana now. I just needed to perform the working. See London. See my body.

  Hopefully there will be something to come back to.

  The thought twisted in my chest.

  Hopefully.

  Isabella gestured toward an archway leading deeper into the apartment. “Please, get comfortable. We have much to discuss.”

  * * *

  Isabella’s living area opened to the left—a wide space with low furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Ardorkeep’s skyline. Everything was black, grey, or silver. No warm colours anywhere. Clinical.

  We settled onto the sofa. Isabella took the armchair across from us, crossing one leg over the other.

  Brutus returned carrying a tray. Three crystal glasses filled with dark red liquid. He set them on the obsidian table between us, bowed, and retreated without a word.

  Isabella lifted her glass. “To productive partnerships.”

  I picked up mine. The wine caught the light—deep pomegranate red with an almost opalescent shimmer beneath the surface. I brought it to my lips.

  The taste hit immediately.

  Sweet. Rich. Complex layers that unfolded across my tongue—fruit and something else, something I couldn’t identify but that made my mouth water involuntarily.

  I’d never liked wine. Too bitter, too dry, always left an unpleasant aftertaste. But this—

  I took another sip.

  “Good vintage,” Aria said, grinning. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Local market.” Isabella set her glass down. “Now. Group projects begin in three weeks. We’ll need to coordinate for Geopolitics primarily—Professor Scarlet requires teams of three to five. Alchemy allows pairs, though we could work together if the assignment permits up to four.”

  I forced my attention away from the wine. “What about the other classes?”

  “Most are individual work.” Isabella produced that leather notebook again, flipping it open. “Magic Theory, Mathematics, Anatomy—those evaluate personal competence. But Geopolitics runs the entire semester. Weekly simulations. Resource management scenarios. Mock negotiations.”

  “Sounds intense,” Aria said.

  “It is.” Isabella’s pen moved across the page, silver ink forming neat columns. “Professor Scarlet grades on results, not effort. Teams that fail lose significantly more than just marks.”

  I sipped the wine again, savouring the sweetness. “What do they lose?”

  “Reputation. Future opportunities. Scarlet has connections throughout the Nine Circles. Students who impress her receive recommendations to powerful houses. Students who disappoint…” Isabella’s gaze lifted. “Let’s just say employment becomes difficult.”

  Right. Politics. Always politics.

  I drained half the glass without thinking.

  Aria nudged my shoulder. “Slow down there, bookworm.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re chugging wine like it’s water.”

  Was I? I glanced at the glass. Nearly empty.

  Huh.

  “I like it,” I said simply.

  Isabella’s lips curved. “I can have Brutus bring more.”

  “Maybe later.” I set the glass down, noting the pleasant warmth spreading through my chest. Not alcohol—succubi couldn’t get drunk. But something else. A loosening sensation, like tension unwinding.

  “Anyway.” Isabella returned to her notes. “I propose we meet twice weekly. Tuesdays and Thursdays, here, around eight. We can review assignments, coordinate strategy, share research.”

  “Works for me,” Aria said.

  I nodded.

  “Good.” Isabella closed the notebook. “Then that’s settled.”

  The official business concluded. Silence settled over the room—not uncomfortable, just present.

  Then Aria grinned. “So. Now that we’re done being all professional and stuff—” She turned toward me. “Can we talk about how Lily’s already developing a reputation as the Academy’s biggest nerd?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You spent eight hours in the library yesterday,” Aria said. “Eight. Hours. Even the professors don’t do that.”

  “I was researching.”

  “You were hiding in there. Admit it.”

  I opened my mouth to deny it, then stopped. She wasn’t wrong. The library had become my refuge—a place where I could disappear into texts about planar mechanics and dimensional theory without having to perform.

  “I like books,” I said.

  “You like escaping.” But Aria’s tone carried no judgment. Just observation. “Though honestly? I don’t blame you. After Valentina’s bullshit, I’d want to hide too.”

  Isabella’s gaze had been moving between us throughout the exchange. Now she spoke. “I’ve had my eye on you two since the first day.”

  Aria straightened. “Really?”

  “The hallway incident.” Isabella’s expression remained neutral, but something glinted in her ice-blue eyes. “When you humiliated Valentina publicly. That took either courage or stupidity. I wanted to determine which.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “Still deciding.” But her mouth quirked. Almost a smile.

  Aria laughed. “Fair enough. Though for the record, I think it was fifty percent courage, fifty percent Lily not understanding how nobility works yet.”

  “I understand fine,” I said.

  “You understand theoretically.” Aria poked my arm. “Practically? You’re still figuring it out.”

  She had a point. I’d read about Hell’s hierarchy, memorized the power structures, analyzed the feudal system. But living within it—navigating the unspoken rules, the subtle tests, the constant performance—that was different.

  “Well,” Isabella said, “you’re learning quickly. Though most commoners would never dare speak to Valentina the way you did.”

  The conversation drifted after that. Aria launched into a tangent about fashion—something about wing adornments and tail jewellery becoming trendy in the merchant district. Isabella contributed surprisingly detailed opinions about tailoring and fabric quality. I mostly listened, occasionally sipping the wine that kept somehow refilling in my glass.

  “—and those shoes,” Aria was saying. “I mean, come on. If you’re going to wear heels that high, at least make sure they complement the outfit instead of fighting it.”

  “Agreed,” Isabella said. “Though her bigger problem is the colour coordination. Silver and gold don’t mix.”

  “Unless you’re deliberately going for eclectic,” Aria added. “Which she wasn’t.”

  The warmth in my chest intensified. Not unpleasant. Just… present. Spreading through my limbs, making everything feel slightly softer around the edges.

  “Lily’s not even listening,” Aria said, laughing.

  I focused. “I am.”

  “What did I just say?”

  “Something about… shoes?”

  “See? Not listening.” Aria leaned back against the sofa, her shoulder pressing against mine. “Though I guess fashion’s not really your thing.”

  “I appreciate functional clothing.”

  “Functional.” Isabella’s eyebrow rose. “How pragmatic.”

  “Someone has to be.”

  They both laughed at that—genuine amusement that loosened something in my chest I hadn’t realized was tight.

  This was… nice. Sitting here, talking about nothing important, no performances or calculations required.

  Dangerous, whispered the part of me still clinging to London, to my apartment, to my old life.

  But nice.

  Aria’s tail curled around my ankle. I didn’t pull away.

  “You know what?” Aria said, her voice dropping slightly. “I’m really glad we’re doing this. The three of us.”

  “Agreed,” Isabella said.

  They were both looking at me.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly. “Me too.”

  Aria’s hand found mine on the sofa cushion. Her fingers laced through mine.

  And Isabella leaned forward, her gaze intent.

  “Then perhaps,” Isabella said, “we should make it official.”

  My pulse quickened. “Official how?”

  “The traditional way.” Aria’s thumb traced circles on my palm. “For succubi, anyway.”

  Oh.

  Oh!

  Isabella rose from her chair. She crossed to the sofa, settling on my other side.

  “If you’re uncomfortable,” Isabella said, “we can simply talk more.”

  But her hand rested on my thigh.

  And Aria’s breath warmed my neck.