The city was restless.
It tossed under the weight of rumor, sweat-slick in its neon sheets, fevered by headlines. Every billboard, every holoscreen, every phone in every hand seemed to glow with the same scandal:
The Clock heiresses and the stranger who walked between them.
A photograph, sharp in its violence of light, repeated endlessly—Mira regal in her composure, Myra ablaze with mischief, and Arkellin between them like a shadow given flesh.
The Shadow Between Sisters.
For Mira, the words were poison. For Myra, they were fire. For Arkellin—they were meaningless. He had been hunted by shadows long before this city learned his name.
---
The penthouse at the Grand Aurelia Hotel groaned with two storms. The first pressed its body against the glass walls—rain hammering, wind rattling, lightning tearing jagged scars across the skyline. The second filled the suite itself—phones buzzing with alerts, aides whispering in panic, Mira pacing sharp lines in heels that clicked against marble.
Arkellin stood apart.
He leaned against the balcony frame, dark suit sharp against the night, hands at ease, posture balanced. The white streak in his hair caught each flash of lightning, as if the storm chose him to illuminate. He was still damp from the rain at the gala's exit, the scent of water and cold air clinging to his jacket.
Across the room, Myra sprawled on the sofa like a flame that refused to be doused. Barefoot now, maroon silk dress clinging and slipping in equal measure, she held a glass of red wine lazily in her hand. The slit in her gown had fallen wide open, baring a stretch of thigh as pale and smooth as carved marble.
Mira, in contrast, was steel. She had changed into a grey silk blouse and tailored black trousers, hair bound in a tight knot. She stood with her tablet, voice clipped, commanding aides and lawyers through a labyrinth of damage control. Her words were knives; her composure a mask that had no cracks.
And still, Arkellin's presence was the true disruption.
---
"Do you know what they're calling you?" Myra's voice broke the tension, rich with wine and amusement.
Arkellin didn't turn. His eyes stayed on the lightning streaking the skyline. "Something stupid."
Her lips curved, red as the wine she swirled in her glass. "The Shadow Between Sisters. Sounds like the title of a tragedy… or a love story."
His head turned slightly, gaze sliding toward her. "Poetry dies fast in this city."
She laughed, low, sultry, curling around the edges of the storm. "Then maybe we should burn brighter while it lasts."
---
She rose, steps unhurried but certain, wine glass balanced between two fingers. Bare feet whispered across marble as she crossed the distance. The air shifted with her—floral perfume laced with the sharp tang of red wine, wrapped in the electric breath of the storm sneaking through the cracked balcony door.
She stopped just in front of him.
"You don't flinch," she murmured, tilting her face up toward his. Her eyes gleamed, catching the lightning. "Even when the world stares."
"I don't flinch for show," he replied, voice steady.
"Then when do you?"
"When it matters."
Her grin trembled, a thrill breaking through her mask. She set her glass on the rail, fingers tapping the rim, then slid her hand across his lapel. The fabric was cool and damp beneath her touch, the faint scratch of wool under silk-smooth nails. Slowly, deliberately, her fingers dragged downward toward his chest.
"You're trouble," she whispered, leaning closer. "And I like trouble."
Arkellin's hand shot up, catching her wrist. His grip was unyielding, not harsh, the weight of a predator halting prey. His eyes bored into hers. "You don't know what you're asking."
Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers. She licked her lower lip, smile curling sharper. "I don't care."
The storm cracked overhead, thunder rolling through the frame like a warning.
Myra leaned closer, her breath a whisper of heat against his jaw, wine-sweet and desperate. "Tell me to stop," she whispered, "and I will."
Arkellin held her gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, he released her wrist.
Not a push. Not a pull. A choice.
Her eyes glittered. Her lips parted. And she closed the distance.
---
The kiss was lightning.
Her mouth met his with heat that tasted of wine and defiance, a reckless challenge pressed against steady stone. He did not move at first, letting her pour herself into him, but when he answered, it was with force that stole her breath.
Her nails bit lightly into his jaw. His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. The silk of her dress shifted higher, baring more thigh, the slit falling apart under the stormlight.
She gasped into his mouth, laughter breaking into something rawer. But then—hesitation. A tremor in her body. A flicker of fear in her eyes. Her lips faltered, and the playfulness cracked into fragility.
Arkellin stilled instantly. His thumb brushed her mouth, eyes unyielding. "Are you sure?"
She swallowed hard, breath shaky, then nodded. "Don't stop," she whispered.
His control shifted. His movements gentled. His lips returned to hers, slower, deliberate, every kiss a question, every touch a reassurance. She clung tighter, nails digging into his shoulders, pain flaring but chosen.
She winced. He slowed. He waited. She nodded again, choosing him, choosing the ache.
The storm's roar muffled behind the glass, replaced by the sound of skin against skin, breath tangled, gasps woven into the rhythm of something both painful and sweet. The city blurred behind them, neon bleeding into rain, as if the whole world leaned away to give them space.
Myra's laughter returned at last, broken by shivers, turning into soft cries that faded into silence. She collapsed against his chest, her hair damp with sweat and stormlight. Her thighs trembled against him, sore, every nerve raw and alive.
"You…" she breathed, voice cracked, "…you're going to ruin me."
Arkellin's lips pressed to the crown of her head, his voice low, steady, protective. "No. I'll keep you from ruin."
She let her eyes close, body melting into his, fragile and victorious at once. He held her there, his hand stroking her damp hair, the storm raging outside but muted now, as though it too bowed to the choice made in this room.
Lightning split the city once more, thunder crashing like applause.
And so, in the storm's shadow, the first line was crossed.