Clio peeked at Lyre. Eyes closed, he slumped on the sofa. How badly was he hurt? What exactly had Dulcet done to him? When the receptionist had come to get her, she’d looked down the corridor and spotted Dulcet pinning Lyre to the wall. She hadn’t even stopped to think. She’d run toward them, knowing she had to help Lyre.

She glanced again at his bleeding side and wished she’d whammed that binder into Dulcet’s head a few more times.

She finally found the first aid kit and carried it back to Lyre. He cracked one eye open as she sat beside him and flipped the box open. It was a basic kit, just bandages, gauze, and a few other odds and ends. She pulled out the gauze and lifted his shirt. He watched her mop the blood from his side, hardly flinching. Once cleaned, the wound didn’t look too terrible—just a few lacerations and some redness that would probably darken into a spectacular bruise.

“Would you like me to heal it?” she asked.

“Nah, wouldn’t be worth the effort.” He sat up. “It’ll heal on its own in no time.”

She nodded. Magical healing was exhausting for the healer and patient both, and generally reserved for serious injuries.

He reached for the bandages and she swatted his hand away. “I can do it!”

He arched an eyebrow. “So can I?”

“Let me help.” She pushed on his shoulder and he leaned back again. Biting her lip, she took longer than necessary to cut a few pieces of gauze. “Should I … should I have not hit Dulcet?”

“What?” Lyre blinked at her. “Clio, I will treasure that memory for the rest of my life.”

“Huh?”

He smiled like a satisfied lover. “I’ve wanted to punch him in the face for years. Watching you crack his skull was the next best thing.”

“It was … oh,” she said breathlessly. The sex appeal he radiated was downright scandalous. She pressed gauze to his side. “It wasn’t bad then?”

“Well.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t smart of you to get involved, but …”

She looked up and his smile grew sheepish.

“Thanks for your help,” he murmured.

Feeling another blush coming on, she could only nod. Leaving the gauze stuck to his side, she measured out a few pieces of white medical tape and fixed the bandages in place. Sitting back, she examined her work, proud of the neat job—and extra proud that she hadn’t swooned over his sculpted abs. Or stroked some of that smooth golden skin.

As she shoved the supplies into the kit, he pushed off the sofa, crossed to the cupboards, and opened one, exposing a stack of fabric in muted colors. He pulled a piece out and shook it to reveal a clean shirt with crease marks from being folded too long.

Then he grabbed the back of the shirt he was wearing and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. Her stomach flip-flopped and she told herself to look away, but her eyes refused to shift. He tossed the bloody shirt into a corner, muscles in his back flexing, and pulled the other one on as he turned, giving her a brief, mouthwatering view of his bare torso before the new shirt fell into place.

She swallowed hard and refused to think about what it would be like to touch him. After that moment on the sofa, where she was positive he’d been about to kiss her, she shouldn’t be thinking anything inappropriate about him.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You’re not injured anywhere else?”

He rolled his shoulders. “Only my pride.”

“My pride has taken a hit too, since coming here. These incubi, you know, they really go for the low blows.”

Humor lightened his eyes. “They’re a bunch of sneaky bastards, aren’t they?”

“Especially those brothers.”

“Definitely the brothers.” He tilted his head questioningly. “How’s it going with Madrigal?”

“Your tips were a big help. I’ve been mostly staring over his shoulder, staying as angry as possible, and watching how much aphro—” She almost bit her tongue off, realizing she’d been about to reveal she could “see” aphrodesia magic. As far as Lyre knew, that was impossible.

“Glad you’ve got it under control.”

“He seems really ticked off at me.” A shiver ran through her. “Is there anything else he can do?”

“Hmm.” Lyre walked to the long table at the other end of the room and dropped onto the spinning stool. “Incubi have the ability to affect your will, but if you don’t look into his eyes, he shouldn’t be able to enthrall you unless he releases his glamour.”

She hadn’t thought much about what an incubus looked like out of glamour. More irresistible, or less? She honestly couldn’t imagine Lyre being any more alluring. “Why does that make a difference?”

He shrugged, turning to the table and picking up a metal disk. She watched him, then peered around the room. A workroom, obviously, though it reminded her more of an artist’s studio. Overflowing bookshelves, cluttered cabinets, and a long table buried under piles of … stuff.

She leaned closer to the shelves, scanning the technical weaving texts. Near the bottom, a variety of history and geography books were crammed into a corner, and their spines were noticeably more creased than the other texts.

Rising to her feet, she crossed the room to join him. “Lyre …”

He glanced up, his questioning amber eyes stealing her breath.

She wrung her hands. “Thank you for saving me from Dulcet. Before. I’m sorry for … for having to …”

His gaze dropped back to the disk. “I’m sorry for making you do that.”

She looked across the table, then focused her asper. Every object scattered across the surface glowed with golden weaves, though half of them seemed unfinished.

Everything except one … a steel collar. Blinking away her asper, she picked it up and turned it over. Fingerprints smudged the shining metal as though Lyre had handled it frequently, but no magic imbued the metal.

“Clio.” Lyre propped one elbow on the table, watching her with a serious stare. “You need to go home.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve worked out your commission with Madrigal, haven’t you? You don’t need to wait here while he weaves it. Return home and have him bring the spell to Earth for your approval.”

“But isn’t it easier if I wait here?”

“Easier, but not safer. Dulcet knows who you are, and he wanted to get his hands on you even before you smacked him around.” He grimaced. “Dulcet is dangerous, as you probably figured out. He likes to experiment, especially on interesting ‘specimens,’ like Overworld nymphs. And he doesn’t care much about what’s allowed or not allowed. You need to leave before he can do anything else.”

Ignoring a sharp stab of fear, she leaned back against the table beside him. “I can’t leave yet. I was … invited … to this thing.”

His brow furrowed. “What thing?”

“I’m not sure exactly what it is. A dinner? A party? Some kind of political gathering at the Hades residence.”

The way his face paled did nothing to help her nerves. “Samael’s residence?”

“Is it that bad?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Probably not? If you stick to the main areas and don’t let anyone—especially Samael—convince you to go off somewhere private. Are your bodyguards going with you?” At her nod, he relaxed. “You should be fine then. When is it?”

“At the eclipse.”

“Almost a half cycle still,” he murmured, glancing at the narrow window above the desk where only thick darkness was visible. “That’s a lot of time for Dulcet to catch you alone. You need to stay close to your guards and avoid coming back here.”

She didn’t ask if he would help her. His brother had already attacked him, and she couldn’t ask for anything more. She didn’t even know why he’d helped her as much as he had.

Needing a distraction, she waved the steel ring. “What’s this?”

“A collar.”

She rolled her eyes. “Obviously. But it doesn’t have a spell in it.”

“I haven’t invented the spell yet.”

“What will it be?”

He turned to the disk. “Something unpleasant.”

Lowering the collar, she studied him. “You don’t want to make it, do you?”

“No.”

“Then why not refuse?”

“If I could do that, I would have.”

“Why can’t you? Would you lose your job if you turned down a commission?”

He glanced at her, his expression incredulous, then refocused on the metal disk. “Something like that.”

She dropped the collar on the table in front of him and he jumped at the loud clang. She pointed at the disk. “What’s that spell, then?”

He shrugged.

“So forthcoming.” Still leaning against the table, she shifted closer to him and focused her asper on the disk. The weave flashed, a complex layering of runes and circles. The shapes suggested a communication spell for passing messages across distances.

“It doesn’t work,” he said, the nearness of his voice startling her. She’d shifted closer to him than she’d realized. “It should work. The theory is sound. But I guess I messed something up. What do you think?”

When he held it up for her inspection, she pointed without thinking. “There.”

“Where?”

“The second layer, with the six runes and the triangle? That spot is broken.”

“It’s not broken. It’s supposed to look like that.”

She plucked the disk from his hands and raised it toward her face. “Well, that’s the spot that doesn’t work. This here”—she traced a line—“flows like it should, but it hits that triangle thingy and everything gets kind of fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy?”

“The weave is muddied. I’ve seen it before with spells that aren’t properly balanced.”

“Huh. So … wait.”

He took the disk back and slid his fingers across it. She watched in amazement as the spell’s layers shifted and twirled, and the triangle shape rotated ninety degrees. He lifted his hand and the threads settled again.

He held it up. “How about now?”

She leaned closer. “You fixed it! It’s perfect now. I bet it will work just fine.”

“Well, damn.” He set the disk on the table. “That’s been stumping me for three cycles. Those nymph eyes of yours are quite useful, huh?”

“They do come in handy some … times …” She trailed off, her mouth hanging open in horror as she belatedly clued in to what he’d said—and what she’d revealed.

He smirked, oozing satisfaction.

“You—I mean—I didn’t—gah!” She pressed her hands to her face. “I am so stupid.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I already knew.”

“You did? But how did you—wait.” She stiffened. “You set me up, didn’t you? You tricked me into giving myself away!”

“Hmm. Yep, pretty much.”

“You—” She spluttered incoherently, embarrassed and furious. “You knew how to fix that spell all along.”

“I had no idea what was wrong with it.” He smiled smugly. “Two birds, one stone.”

She growled wordlessly, ready to strangle that smile right off his face.

His eyes widened. “Don’t be so mad, Clio. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“You aren’t?”

She thrust an accusatory finger in his face. “I’m just sick of you tricking me! Why do you do that?”

“Well … it’s easy.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Says the girl who keeps getting tricked.”

She lurched away from the table, turning her back on him, but he caught her wrist. His firm tug spun her around and she stumbled to a stop inches from where he sat on the high stool, her hands resting on his chest.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice deeper, his eyes darker.

She swallowed. “I’m going … back to the inn?”

“Not yet. We need to wait to make sure Dulcet is gone first.”

“I … Oh.” She couldn’t move. She was falling into his eyes, lost in the shadowed amber. She wanted to lean closer and bring her lips to his. She wanted him to kiss her so badly it hurt.

His warm hand curled over her hip and pulled, drawing her closer until she was pressed against him, and now she definitely couldn’t breathe. It took a massive effort of will to hold her hands still, to keep them from exploring all those muscles she’d so recently glimpsed.

His hand slid down her hip … then curled over her backside and squeezed.

She jumped away with a squeal, heat rushing through her cheeks. “Lyre!”

“What?” His expression shifted to a perfect imitation of innocence.

“You—”

The disk on the table fizzed. Blinding light flashed.

He grabbed her as the disk exploded. She hit the floor, Lyre landing on top of her. Light blazed wildly and sparks rained down on them. When the fireworks stopped, he propped himself up on one elbow and glanced at the smoking table.

“Guess the spell wasn’t fixed after all.”

“Guess not,” she agreed weakly.

“I thought you said it looked good?”

“It did.”

“Huh. Well, starting from scratch now, I suppose.”

She nodded distractedly. He was lying mostly on top of her, his body warm and hard. His head turned, and his darkening eyes met hers. That hungry stare. Just like in the alcove. Just like on the sofa.

For a moment that seemed to last an hour, he watched her, his face so close. But then his jaw tightened and he pushed himself up. Rising to his feet, he offered her a hand.

She let him pull her upright, observing him closely. He was so hot and cold she didn’t know how to respond. One minute it seemed like he wanted to “tear her clothes off,” as Kassia had put it, but the next he was pulling back and acting like nothing had happened.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Whatever the reason, it was good he kept pulling back, because she had consistently failed to resist him. Withstanding Madrigal’s attempts to seduce her was straightforward, more of an exercise in willpower and diligence than anything else. And that was with heavy doses of aphrodesia added to the mix.

But with Lyre, she couldn’t keep her head on straight. As soon as he got close, she forgot he was … well, not her enemy, but not her ally either … and she forgot she needed to keep a safe distance. And he wasn’t even using magic on her.

As he examined the damage to the table, she focused her asper again. Dim wisps of golden magic eddied around him and clung close to his body. Having seen the thick swirls of aphrodesia that Madrigal could fill a room with, the magic around Lyre was almost nonexistent.

Either he was being exceptionally subtle, or that faint presence of aphrodesia was beyond his control and as natural to him as breathing. Unaware of her assessment, he tossed the blackened disk into a waste bin in the corner, then threw a few charred arrow shafts in after it.

She joined him at the table and wiped a finger through the layer of soot. “I’m sorry. I should have realized it was unstable.”

“My fault.” He grabbed a ratty cloth and scrubbed away the worst of the stain. “Altering a weave after the fact is always risky.”

“Your reflexes are excellent,” she commented, wondering how much that blast would have hurt if he hadn’t thrown her to the floor.

“Things blowing up is par for the course around here, as you’ve seen.” He leaned a hip on the table and smiled at her in a way that made her instantly wary. “Now that we aren’t pretending you don’t have mystical all-seeing eyes—”

“They’re not all-seeing. And it’s called astral perception.”

He grinned and scooped an arm around her waist. She squeaked in surprise as he swept her around and pushed her down on his stool. She was still mentally catching up when he plucked two arrows from the table and held them up.

“Which one is better?”

“Which arrow? They look the same.”

“Which weaving.”

She crossed her arms. “I am not your spell-viewing monkey.”

“I thought you wanted to see all the magic around here?” He waved the arrows enticingly. “Tell you what. Help me with these spells since you’re stuck here anyway, and I’ll teach you what the ‘triangle thingy’ is and why weaves get fuzzy sometimes.”

“You know why they look fuzzy?”

He raised an eyebrow. “There is literally nothing I don’t know about how magic works.”

“Literally nothing?” she repeated, trying to sound skeptical instead of amused.

“Okay, one caveat. There’s literally nothing I don’t know about magic that another weaver would know.”

“Ah, okay. That’s a little different.”

“Just a little.” He held up the arrows again. “So, deal?”

She couldn’t help her smile. “Okay, deal. But I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

They worked on the arrows first, then another disk spell, then a few steel balls with different shielding spells. She examined the weaves, told him where she thought the problem was, and he either made notes on it, tried to adjust the weave—carefully, to avoid any more unplanned detonations—or wove an entirely new spell for her to check.

Watching him weave was an experience she wouldn’t forget. It was art in motion—lines of golden light that swirled and danced beneath his dexterous fingers. Just watching him taught her how to refine her own weaving techniques and illustrated how far off her skills were in comparison. His abilities went beyond talent. He was truly gifted.

Afterward, they ended up perched on the sofa, leaning over the coffee table with a reference book open and sheets of paper spread over the surface. At first, he’d just explained what the triangular construction was, but then she’d asked him about another shape she remembered seeing but didn’t understand. And somehow that had evolved into a lesson on advanced weaving constructs.

He was a patient teacher, never making her feel inferior—despite his grandiose claims about knowing everything. Her education held up well, but his knowledge was so vast it left her speechless.

“How do you know so much?” she asked as he tossed another sheet of paper onto the table filled with scribbled shapes. “It should take a lifetime to learn so much. Why aren’t you a grizzled old man with a beard down to your waist?”

He stroked his smooth jaw—an unfair distraction. “Incubi can’t grow beards, for starters. And second, it all depends on when you start learning.”

“When did you start studying advanced weaving then?”

“Hmm.” Looking thoughtful, he slouched back on the sofa. “I graduated to advanced training when I was … I don’t know, seven or eight seasons?”

“But … isn’t a season about a year?”

“Yeah, pretty close.”

“You were seven or eight years old?”

He nodded.

“But—you—that’s—” She shook her head violently. “That’s insane! Normal kids have barely started school at that age, and you were starting advanced magic?”

“My family isn’t exactly normal.”

“But—”

He nonchalantly plucked the pencil from her hands. “What about you? Your education is good for someone who doesn’t weave spells for a living.”

She recognized the deliberate topic shift away from his past. Was he so talented that he’d learned the basics quickly, or had he undergone intensive study as a young child? Seven-year-old kids shouldn’t be learning advanced weaving. It was ridiculous.

But he obviously didn’t want to discuss it, so she stole the pencil back from him and pointed it at his chest. “I didn’t start learning until I was in my teens, and then it was more about understanding what I was seeing with my asper—astral perception—than how to weave the spells.”

She didn’t mention she’d needed little education on how to weave because of her natural—or unnatural, depending on who was talking—ability to mimic any magic she saw.

“I didn’t start studying in earnest until after my mother died,” she admitted. “Before that, I wasn’t very motivated.”

“Did her death change your attitude?”

Clio nodded, his casual curiosity surprising her. He didn’t seem to have registered her mother’s death as a potentially painful topic.

“My mother and father weren’t … together. Once she was gone, I realized I didn’t have much to offer my father’s side of the family, so I worked on getting better.” Not wanting to talk about her family—and inadvertently reveal too much—she gestured across the reference books and papers. “Working with you is so much better than working with Madrigal. Why did you make me suffer with him instead of doing my commission yourself?”

She’d intended the question to be teasing, so she didn’t expect his eyes to go flat.

“Madrigal will do a better job.”

“But you know what you’re doing with weaving, so why—”

He sat up and started tidying the books on the table. “Madrigal is a superior weaver. Be glad he’s making your special spell.”

She pressed her lips together at the hint of a sneer in his voice on the last two words. “I just watched you weave, Lyre. I can’t imagine anyone superior to you.”

“Well, he is. All my brothers are. You’d be waiting weeks for me to manage something that wouldn’t blow up in your face.”

“But—”

“Besides that, I don’t want to make your spell.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

He slashed a look at her. “What does it do?”

“What?”

“The spell Madrigal is making for you.”

“It’s …” She twisted the hem of her shirt. “It’s … supposed to …”

“It’s so foul you can’t even tell me, huh?”

Her shoulders wilted. “It was Madrigal’s idea.”

“And even though it’s so unpleasant, you still wish I was making it for you? You want me to be responsible for creating something that will kill people?”

Her head snapped up and she met his hard eyes, her blood suddenly chilled. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Well, I think about it all the time. I don’t need another death spell on my conscience.” He rose to his feet and stretched, arching his back. “I’ll check that the coast is clear, then take you back to reception.”

As he started for the door, she bit her lip. “Lyre?”

With one hand on the door, he glanced over his shoulder questioningly.

She hesitated, hanging on the words before forcing them out. “Why don’t you leave?”

“What?”

“You—you don’t like making spells that kill people, but isn’t that what Chrysalis does? If working here conflicts with your morals, why stay?”

He turned toward the threshold, his face hidden by his arm propping open the door. “With the things I’ve seen, all the secrets I know … do you really think I can just leave?”

Then he walked out, leaving her staring wordlessly after him.