The rooftop lounge floated above Aurelia like a glass lantern.
Blue neon lapped softly at the room's edges, tinting steel and glass with the color of deep water. Beyond the panoramic windows, rain combed the skyline into silver threads, each drop streaking the city lights until towers looked like they were melting into the night. Jazz murmured from a hidden speaker—brushed snare, a lazy trumpet—more breath than music. The air smelled of citrus peel and the faint, clean bite of rain that slipped in through a balcony door left open two fingers' width.
Myra guided Arkellin through the low-lit space with the confidence of someone who had always known where attention lived. The private room was a world apart from the lounge below: two velvet sofas facing the glass, a black marble table with a bowl of limes beading condensation, and a single candle housed in smoked glass, its flame steady despite the draft.
She dropped onto the nearer sofa, crossing one leg over the other so the maroon satin of her dress lifted a whisper. Then she patted the cushion beside her—twice, precise, smiling like a dare. "Don't lurk in doorways, Mr. Andy," she said, voice wrapped in velvet. "Shadows belong to men who are afraid of their own edges."
Arkellin didn't hurry. He crossed the room with the same measured stride he'd carried into a hundred battles, set his palm on the sofa back for a heartbeat—testing the room's weight—then sat. Not too close. Not far. The candle put a soft ridge of light along his jaw, leaving his eyes dark, reflective.
Myra tipped her head, watching him the way a fencer watches a stance. She lifted the coupe glass from the table, its stem cold against her fingers, and swirled the pale drink until a ribbon of scent—lime, something herbal—released into the air. "So," she said lightly, "how dangerous are you really? Enough to scare old men in tuxedos, clearly. But that's a low bar."
Arkellin's gaze drifted past her to the rain, then back. "Danger is a word the safe use to name what they don't understand."
"Mm." She tasted the line like a sweet fruit, smiling. "Poetic. Noncommittal." She leaned in, just enough for the candle's glow to slip across her collarbone. "Try again."
He didn't rise to it. He let the quiet breathe. The trumpet brushed a soft phrase. On the window, a rivulet of rain found a path and dragged a bright city into a wavering line.
Myra set her glass down and shifted closer—not a glide, a decision. The cushion answered with a soft sigh. She extended a hand toward his shoulder, stopped a breath away, then tapped once—light, testing—exactly where a man would tense if he were guarding pain. She felt the smallest recoil beneath the fabric. It was gone in an instant, but she caught it, eyes kindling.
"You hold yourself too carefully," she murmured. "Like a secret you're not sure you want to keep."
Arkellin's mouth edged toward a smile that never fully formed. "Or like a secret I won't let anyone else carry."
"Even better." Her laugh was quiet, delighted. She reclined into the corner of the sofa, watching him over the rim of her lashes. "You know what I like about you? You don't chase the room. You make the room come to you."
"It wastes fewer steps," he said.
"And hides more." Myra's heel traced an idle circle on the rug, satin whispering as she uncrossed and crossed her legs again. "Tell me something true, then. Not about money. Not about empires. About you."
He set his forearms on his thighs, fingers interlaced loosely, and considered the rain. Long enough that silence gathered in a small, attentive crowd. "I don't collect truths," he said at last. "I trade in leverage. Truth included."
Myra tilted her head, conceding the point with a little nod. "Then trade with me."
"What do you offer?"
She grinned. "Entertainment." A beat. "And information, when I'm in the mood."
Their reflections hovered faintly in the glass: his a dark anchor, hers a quick flame playing around it. The city flickered through them both.
"Fine," she said, voice dropping to a warmer register. "Truth for truth. I'll start: I like pushing people until they either push back or fall apart. It tells me who they are." She lifted her hand again, this time resting her fingertips—briefly—against the ridge of his shoulder. "Your turn."
Arkellin looked at her hand, then at her. He did not move it away. "I don't break on schedule."
Myra laughed, bright and sharp as glass catching light. "That wasn't a truth. That was a promise."
"It was both."
The candle flame gave a small, eager dance. Jazz brushed the room like rain against silk. Myra slid a fraction closer, and the space between them tightened to a live wire. Her perfume—bold, honeyed, edged with something wild—folded into the cooler breath of the night air.
"You're not easy to shake, are you?" she said, softly now, almost curious.
"Only because you're not pushing hard enough."
That stopped her—half a heartbeat where surprise and thrill crossed her face like heat lightning. Then her smile sharpened. "Challenge accepted."
She reached past him toward the bowl of limes, pretending to choose one, and let her wrist brush his cuff on the way back. The contact was incidental by design, intentional in effect. She rolled the lime between her palms, the peel releasing a wet, green brightness into the air. "Do you ever get tired," she asked, "of holding the knife by the blade?"
"Depends on who's watching."
"Now who's poetic." She set the lime down. "I think you enjoy the audience more than you admit."
"Only when they misread the act."
"And me?" Her eyes were very clear. "Am I misreading you?"
The city flashed—lightning, far off. It strobed across the glass and broke their ghosts to pieces. When it faded, his gaze hadn't moved.
"You read for sport," he said. "But you remember what matters."
For a moment, nothing in the room made a sound: no trumpet, no rain, only the soft thrum of the building's heart. Myra's smile thinned into something more thoughtful. She watched him like a puzzle that resisted being solved quickly, and enjoyed it more for the resistance.
Then, as if remembering the terms of her game, she leaned in until her voice was a secret. "Careful, Mr. Andy. If you keep giving me almosts, I'll start taking more."
He met her halfway, not closing the distance, not yielding it. "That's the problem with taking," he said. "You have to hold it."
"I'm very good at holding things."
"We'll see."
The rain thickened; the candle stood its ground. Beyond the glass, Aurelia blurred and glowed. Inside, the sofa held two silhouettes that had learned the other's shape well enough to test the edges without drawing blood—yet.
Myra sat back at last, as if to prove she could. She scooped her coupe glass, drained the last sweet mouthful, and set it down with a soft click. "Round one, then," she said, eyes dancing. "Call it a draw."
Arkellin's answer was a small incline of the head. "For now."
But the charge remained, humming between their breaths, sparking each time her gaze glanced off his like flint. And the storm, patient as ever, pressed its hands to the windows and waited to be invited in.
The rain thickened outside, drumming harder against the panoramic glass. Lightning flared again, quick and white, leaving both their reflections caught in its flash—hers a blaze of crimson silk and laughter, his a dark silhouette with eyes that never wavered.
Myra leaned in once more, pressing the advantage she thought she had gained. Her perfume—sweet and dangerous—filled the narrow space, her fingers trailing lightly along the edge of his sleeve. "You're too still, Mr. Andy," she whispered, her smile a provocation. "Most men would already be begging for more."
Arkellin didn't blink.
His hand rose—not to take hers, not to pull her closer, but to lift her coupe glass off the table. He turned it in his fingers, the liquid catching candlelight, then set it deliberately back down, further from her reach. A small move, but precise, controlled.
"You mistake patience for weakness," he said, voice steady, low enough that the rain nearly swallowed it. "That's how people lose games before they even start."
Myra arched a brow, the playful curve of her mouth faltering for the first time. "Games are meant to be played."
"Games are meant to be won."
He leaned forward then, slow, steady. Not toward her lips, not even toward her hand—but just close enough that the heat of him disrupted her balance. She found herself drawn back against the sofa, eyes widening before narrowing again in defiance.
Her tongue darted across her lower lip, an unconscious tell. "So what are you trying to win?"
Arkellin let the silence hang, his gaze heavy. Then he said, "Control."
The word cracked sharper than the thunder that rolled above them.
Myra's chest rose, her breath shallow now. The predator's gleam in her eyes dimmed for a heartbeat, replaced by the awareness that she had underestimated the stillness across from her. Arkellin wasn't prey. He wasn't even playing the same game. He had been letting her circle, letting her test, until he decided the moment was his.
Her laugh came soft, breathless, but it betrayed something different now—a thrill edged with submission. "You're not easy, are you?"
Arkellin settled back against the sofa, every motion deliberate, dominant in its restraint. His hands rested on his knees, shoulders loose, as if he had just set down an invisible weight. The storm outside painted him in shadow, the white streak in his hair catching the occasional flash.
"You want easy," he said calmly, "you'll find it in every other man here. You want truth? You'll find it only when you stop pushing for fun."
Myra tilted her head, watching him as if seeing him new. The playful fire didn't vanish, but it bent, reshaped—like flame leaning toward a stronger wind. She felt the shift, the balance tipping away from her, and she didn't resist it. Not entirely.
"You really don't flinch, do you?" she asked, almost in wonder.
Arkellin's eyes narrowed, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. "I only flinch when it matters."
The rain slammed harder, lightning cracked again, and the room felt smaller, tighter, like the storm itself was pressing against the glass to watch.
For the first time in years, Myra realized she wasn't in control of her own game. And instead of fear, it thrilled her.
The candle guttered as another rush of wind slid in from the balcony door left ajar. Rain hissed against the glass wall, thick and insistent, blurring the city into trembling streaks of gold and blue. The storm outside had grown closer, restless, pressing against the rooftop lounge like it, too, demanded witness.
On the sofa, silence coiled between them.
Myra leaned forward, her maroon silk dress slipping against her skin, the neckline daring, the hem riding higher with each subtle movement. Her eyes shimmered with the light of the candle, equal parts playful and hungry. "You know," she murmured, voice low, "most men would have surrendered by now. Maybe I should reward you for being different."
Arkellin didn't move. He sat in his calm, that still, dark ocean that refused to bend no matter how the wind tried. But his eyes—steady, sharp—never left hers.
Myra's smile faltered, then returned fiercer, as if testing herself against the gravity of his stare. She inched closer until their knees brushed, her perfume wrapping around him, thick and sweet, warm against the cool breath of the rain.
Her hand found his chest. Light at first, playful, then firmer, as though searching for the pulse beneath. She felt the strength coiled there, the slight hitch in his breath he almost disguised.
The world narrowed to the soft sound of rain, the faint hum of jazz, the space between two mouths.
Arkellin didn't stop her when she leaned in.
Her breath ghosted against his cheek, warm and quick. His eyes lowered, not to her body, not to the taunt of crimson silk, but to her lips hovering an inch from his own. The storm crackled above, lightning flashing against the glass, for a heartbeat making them look like shadows etched in firelight.
It would take only one movement.
One tilt.
One surrender.
And then—
A sharp buzz broke the moment.
Arkellin's phone, buried in the pocket of his jacket on the armrest, vibrated with a violence that cut through the air like a blade. The sound was harsh against the intimacy, an intruder none of them invited.
Myra froze, lips parted, her breath hot against his skin. Her eyes widened a fraction, the fire of triumph dimming, then sharpening into frustration.
Arkellin inhaled once, slow, steady. The kind of breath that reset the balance. He leaned back just enough for the electricity to break, then reached for the phone. His gaze flicked to the glowing screen.
A single message pulsed.
"Kane spotted. East Dock."
The storm growled outside as if in answer.
Arkellin's eyes narrowed. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, the weight of decision already set in his shoulders. When he rose from the sofa, it was unhurried, deliberate—his dominance intact, his aura colder than the rain.
Myra remained where she was, lips still parted, satin clinging to her form, eyes burning with the ache of an almost stolen. She forced a smile, though it curled sharper at the edges. "Next time," she whispered, her voice low enough to graze him like a blade, "you won't escape."
Arkellin didn't answer. The door to the storm waited. And so did Kane.
Lightning cracked, and the room was left in white fire.