Lyre stood in the shadows and watched the envoy rub at her eyes beneath that infuriating mask.

He did not understand her at all.

Shaking his head, he slipped away, leaving her to wait. He’d worked with enough of Chrysalis’s clients to know what to expect. They came in a few different shades of the same thing—greedy bastards who wanted magic to show off, greedy bastards who wanted magic to frighten or crush their rivals, and greedy bastards who were desperate for more power. He’d assumed Irida’s envoy would fall in the latter category.

Instead, he’d gotten a girl who didn’t have a clue what she was doing.

The elaborate outfit and mask had almost fooled him. He’d seen an arrogant, show-off Overworlder and nothing more—just as intended, he suspected. But every time she had opened her mouth, the image and the reality had conflicted a little more until he knew the game of deception she was playing wasn’t the one he’d expected. She was unlike any client he’d seen before.

He raked his fingers through his hair in bafflement. And now she was crying because she’d caused an incompetent weaver to blow himself up. Crying. And trying to hide it from him, meaning it wasn’t a manipulation.

She wasn’t from Irida’s military. She wasn’t a politician. She wasn’t qualified in the slightest for the job of an envoy. So why was she here? Why had Irida sent a soft, helpless girl into the wolves’ den?

He flipped open his binder and skimmed the documents inside. Bastian Nereid, heir to the Irida throne, had submitted the proposal and Chrysalis had confirmed his identity before agreeing to it. What the hell was that prince thinking, sending this girl?

Snapping the binder shut, he continued to the workroom and pushed the door open. Smoke reeking of burnt flesh spilled out from the interior.

“Lyre!” Amber eyes blazing, Ariose bore down on him with the single-mindedness of a bull. “What happened? I just heard a weaver is dead and three others are injured.”

Lyre shrugged. “Weaving accident.”

His older brother surveyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing down here?”

“Giving the new client a tour.”

“A tour? We don’t give tours.”

“This one demanded a tour. And being from the Overworld, she has no idea what sort of magic we can offer, so it was a good opportunity to impress upon her how super extra special we are.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, binder tucked under one arm. “Don’t have a fit. I just walked her down a few halls and showed off a couple surplus rooms.”

Ariose grunted and glanced into the workroom. “So what happened?”

“The envoy bumped the glass and the nearest weaver dropped his spell.” He lifted one shoulder. “You know how that goes.”

“He didn’t shield?”

“Seems not.”

Ariose’s lip curled. “Better to be rid of that kind of incompetence, then.”

“Yeah. The envoy is upset though, so not sure how it will affect the sale.”

“Upset? Why?”

“A daemon got blown up two feet away from her. I guess that kind of thing is distressing for Overworlders.”

Ariose’s sneer grew more pronounced and Lyre hid a satisfied smirk. His brother would now avoid the sissy, emotional Overworld envoy. Problem solved before it could even become a problem.

“Get back to the envoy then,” Ariose said with a dismissive wave in Lyre’s direction. “I’ll take care of this.”

Lyre nodded. Being away from her was making him oddly antsy, as though something terrible might happen if he let her out of his sight for too long. The girl was a walking disaster. Knocking over the potted tree in the foyer should have been his first warning. Then getting stuck to the spelled door, then triggering an explosion that probably would have killed her if he hadn’t reinforced the glass. Who knew what she might get into if he left her alone for too—

“What’s that noise?” Ariose asked.

From down the corridor, a hideous sound like an entire cutlery drawer falling onto a hard surface shattered the quiet. The noise was coming from the spot where he’d left Clio to—

Before he could even finish the thought, a massive detonation ripped through the basement.

* * *

Clio leaned against the wall, chewing on the edge of a fingernail as she waited for Lyre. How long would it take him to sort out “the mess” in the weavers’ workroom? Was anyone else injured? Would he have to clean up the body?

She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced her thoughts away. She needed to think about something else before she completely lost her composure.

The memory of her name in Lyre’s seductive tones popped into her head and warmth fluttered in her stomach. Ugh. She needed to keep her head on straight. What was he doing to her? Sex fiend, she repeated to herself. Sneaky, predatory sex fiend. She had to resist his allure.

Sighing, she twitched her arm to adjust the ridiculously long sleeve of her costume. She was grateful for the mask, not only for disguising her identity but also for keeping her expression hidden, but the rest of the outfit she could have happily shredded.

She wiggled her arm again and realized that, in her flailing to get off the spelled door, a tie holding one of the giant sleeves in place had loosened. She retied it, holding one end with her teeth as she tried to get a good tight knot this time.

Movement caught her eye and she looked up sharply. Lyre was striding across the quasi-lobby, lab coat flapping behind him, already ten steps ahead of her. Crap. She’d been so busy wrestling with her sleeve that she hadn’t even seen him come out of the corridor beside her. Had he said anything before walking off?

Embarrassed at her obliviousness, she launched after him. Her skirts tangled around her legs as she trotted across the lobby. He didn’t even glance back.

“Hey, wait up. Hey! Lyre, why are you—”

He stopped and turned. She skidded to a stop, gaping at his face. He looked just like Lyre, if Lyre had magically reverse-aged from his early twenties to about fifteen.

The boy glared at her, clutching a drawstring bag. “Why are you shouting at me? Who are you?”

“I—I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I thought you were Lyre.”

His whole face pulled into a grimace, as though being mistaken for Lyre was the most offensive thing he’d ever heard. “Obviously not.”

She stepped back, dislike blooming. What a brat. But his sneer had reminded her of something she’d forgotten—the two other incubi who’d joined Lyre in the shop two weeks ago. Who were they? Did they also work here? Maybe they were the source of the hundreds of golden weavings in that storage room.

“Who are you?” the incubus boy demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m waiting for Lyre. I’m the envoy from—”

A quiet popping sound interrupted her. She and the boy both looked at the cloth bag in his hand, its contents straining against the fabric. The popping continued: the sound of threads snapping in rapid succession.

The bag’s bottom seam tore open. Dozens of small steel balls plunged to the floor and hit the tiles with a deafening crash. The spheres bounced and rolled in every direction, ricocheting off the walls, and Clio cringed at the horrible racket. When they finally settled, she turned to the boy—and saw the fear blazing in his eyes.

Across the space, a sphere sparked with a flicker of gold. It pulsed three times, then burst outward in a shrieking spiral. It caught the nearest spheres, whipping them into the air. Light flashed and they exploded into violent maelstroms too.

The chain reaction spread like lightning, and Clio could only watch in terror as the expanding blast engulfed everything, screaming toward her in a deadly barrage. Beside her, the incubus boy threw up his hands. Magic rushed out from his palms as he cast a bright, shimmering shield over his body.

She didn’t think. With only a second to spare, she thrust her hands out and mimicked his shield. A green barrier flashed into existence around her.

Then the explosion hit them.

* * *

Lyre sprinted toward the explosion as the sound and light died out. With Ariose on his heels, he flew into the lobby where magic and smoke hazed the air. The walls had turned black, deep gouges scarred the cement, and the ceiling sagged, threatening to collapse. Somewhere, an alarm blared loudly. The building was going into lockdown.

Steel balls, the source of the spell, shone among the debris, and in the center of it all, two figures were sprawled. The envoy’s robes were splayed across the scorched floor like white wings, and blond hair spilled from beneath her hood, a golden halo around her head. Her mask lay on the floor a few feet away, shattered.

He raced to her side and dropped to his knees, already pressing two fingers gently against her throat. Her pulse, strong and steady, beat against his fingertips.

“Viol,” Ariose barked, grabbing the second figure by the collar and hauling him into a sitting position. “What did you do?”

“It was an accident,” Viol whined, prodding his head with a shaking hand. “The bag ripped and …”

“You killed an Overworld envoy.” Ariose shook his head in disgust. “How will we explain this to her territory? We could lose all Overworld business because of your—”

“She’s not dead.”

His brothers twisted sharply to look at Lyre as he slid his hands into the girl’s hair, checking her skull for any swelling. A thread of healing magic confirmed there were no fractures.

“Not dead?” Viol repeated. “But … I used a reflective bubble shield and still got blasted.”

“Did she shield?” Ariose asked him.

“She cast something, but I wasn’t looking. Either way, I designed this weaving”—he waved at the steel marbles scattered around the room—“to tear right through regular shields. I don’t know how she could have …”

He trailed off and all three of them stared at her. Lyre’s gaze moved from the soft curves of her cheekbones to the smooth arch of eyebrows, thick lashes, a petite nose, and the full pink lips that had been distracting him since he’d first seen her. A prickle ran down his spine. Something about her face seemed so … familiar.

Her brow scrunched and a soft breath puffed from her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened, revealing vibrant irises the exact color of a midsummer sky.

Recognition hit him like a punch to the gut.

The girl. The one from the spell shop two weeks ago. The young woman with blond hair and flashing blue eyes who’d glared at him so adorably when she thought he was stealing the quicksilver, who’d then distracted his brothers before they could realize he’d smashed the vial.

She was the Irida envoy?

The tide of confusion muted his voice as her hazy gaze shifted from Viol, to Ariose, then to Lyre. He wasn’t sure what expression was on his face, but whatever it was, it made those bright eyes widen. Her hand flew to her forehead and panic crossed her expression as she realized her mask was gone.

“Are you injured, envoy?” Ariose asked, showing no sign that he recognized her as the girl who’d fallen into Lyre in the shop.

“I … I don’t think so,” she whispered.

“How did you survive the detonation?”

“I … shielded …”

“You—”

The drooping ceiling rumbled and a four-foot-wide chunk of concrete fell, crashing to the floor a few feet away. Ariose glanced at it, then rose.

“Get her out of here,” he told Lyre. “We need to clear the floor and stabilize the ceiling.”

As Ariose pulled Viol up, Lyre shook off his shock. He would worry about the mystery of who the envoy was later.

Moving stiffly, she pushed herself into a sitting position before he could help, her gaze downcast and her forehead furrowed with anxiety. She knew he had recognized her. Pressing his lips together, he started to reach for her when the ceiling creaked again. A rain of concrete chips pattered their heads, and she flinched, shoulders hunched.

Lyre plucked a piece out of her hair, then reached around her and pulled her hood up, settling it on her head. Her gaze snapped to his face and pink infused her cheeks.

She was blushing just from him pulling her hood on?

He commanded himself to focus. “Are you sure you aren’t injured?”

She nodded, her cheeks vivid red. “Just … just shaken up.”

“Well, let’s get out of here before the ceiling caves in.”

She glanced fearfully upward. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet. She barely got upright before she collapsed again, falling against him. He automatically closed his arms around her, just like last time.

And just like last time, she clung to him without resistance, as though she wanted nothing more than for him to hold her. Her petite frame seemed so small and fragile under all those layers of fabric. The top of her head scarcely cleared his shoulder.

Ariose’s lip curled when he saw Lyre holding the envoy in his arms. With a warning expression, he mouthed a few words. Lyre wasn’t great at reading lips, but he was pretty sure his brother had said either “keep it professional” or “keep it in your pants.” Either way, the message was the same.

Clinging to the front of his coat for balance, Clio pushed backward, trying to escape his grip.

“I’m fine,” she gasped. “I’m good. I don’t need—I’m just—”

He looped an arm around her shoulders and guided her into motion. She resisted for a moment, then let him steer her out of the foyer. By the time they reached the stairs, she was walking steadily again, but he didn’t remove his arm. She didn’t suggest it either.

He should have removed his arm. He should have reopened the distance between them that he’d breached when he’d tried to lift her mask. But his head was full of her scent, a sweet aroma full of fresh air and green things, underlaid by something elusive, something that was tantalizingly innocent.

A whisper of instinct uncurled from deep within him. A stirring of dark, insatiable hunger. A spark of feral possessiveness.

He slammed those instincts right back down into his deepest subconscious where they belonged. Those instincts and this girl did not go together, and he needed to keep himself under control. He couldn’t afford to lose his head and do something stupid.

Like see how much he could really make her blush.

Veering away from those thoughts, he pushed the door to the stairwell open, revealing a short hall that connected to the reception area. People were running all over the place as alarms blared. Walking at his side, Clio wrinkled her nose at all the noise and commotion.

Her bodyguards in their red leather outfits were pacing anxiously in front of the main desk. At Clio and Lyre’s arrival, they ran over, terse and wary to see their ward with singed clothes, messy hair, and a missing mask.

Lyre pulled his arm away. “We’ll resume later. The receptionists will have someone take you to your accommodations.”

Clio nodded, only a hint of pink remaining in her cheeks. Her huge eyes darted across his face, analyzing his expression. As her guards flanked her, probably bursting with a thousand questions, he canted his head to one side.

“By the way,” he murmured, “I was wrong.”

He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers, and watched her eyes widen.

“Your name,” he purred. “It does suit you.”

Just like that, brilliant red flamed across her face. She backpedaled into the arms of her female guard, and he grinned in satisfaction.

“Until later then, Clio.”

She only managed to splutter as he turned and walked away. Until later. She would do well to rest and gather her wits, because once he had her alone again, he planned to get some answers out of the mysterious “royal envoy.”

He smiled. And if he got to make her blush some more in the process, all the better.