The café felt warmer when they stood.
Or maybe that was just Allison.
She reached for her bag a little too quickly, suddenly aware of ridiculous things she shouldn't have been aware of—how close Lucian was, how his voice seemed to settle somewhere low in her chest, how easily her body had stopped bracing around him without asking her permission first.
That alone should have concerned her more than it did.
Outside the windows, late afternoon had begun to dim into evening. The river reflected streaks of silver and gold, and the quiet little bookstore café had started to fill with the soft rustle of turning pages and low conversation.
Lucian rose smoothly from his chair, one hand brushing the back of it as if he had all the time in the world.
Allison, on the other hand, was trying very hard to remember how to be normal.
"Well," she said, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, "this has been unexpectedly less terrible than most of my recent social interactions."
One dark brow lifted.
"Glowing praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
That dry answer made her lips twitch again.
God.
This man was dangerous.
Not in the obvious way, though that was certainly there too. He was still unfairly handsome, still infuriatingly composed, still carrying that quiet, lethal stillness that screamed power even in a bookstore café.
No, what made him dangerous was the ease of him.
The way his presence unknotted something in her she hadn't realized was clenched.
The way he made room without making a show of it.
The way he noticed everything and weaponized none of it.
A woman could get stupid over that if she wasn't careful.
Allison Croft had already been stupid once.
Never again.
"I should go," she said.
Lucian nodded once. "I'll walk you out."
It wasn't a question.
And under normal circumstances, Allison would have arched a brow and reminded him she had been surviving Boston just fine without a six-foot-three bodyguard in a cashmere coat.
But before the thought could leave her mouth, she noticed something.
Lucian's expression hadn't changed.
But his eyes had.
They flicked once—past her shoulder, toward the window, then to the reflection in the glass. Quick. Quiet. Assessing.
Her pulse sharpened instantly.
"What?" she asked softly.
"Nothing," he said.
Then, after a beat, "You're being watched."
The words should have panicked her.
Instead, they slid through her with a cold clarity she was becoming frighteningly used to.
Allison turned carefully, not enough to be obvious, just enough to catch the dark shape of a man lingering outside near the corner across the street. Casual posture. Baseball cap. Phone to his ear.
Watching the café.
Watching her.
Her jaw tightened.
"Anthony," she said flatly.
Lucian's gaze shifted to her. "Your husband?"
The word scraped against her nerves.
"Not for long."
Something unreadable moved through his eyes at that.
Then he held the door open for her with maddening calm.
"Come on."
They stepped out into the chill evening air together.
The city had begun its slow transition into night. Streetlamps flickered on. Cars rolled by in smooth lines of glass and light. Somewhere farther down the block, music drifted from an open restaurant door.
Lucian walked beside her, not crowding her, not touching her, but near enough that she could feel the quiet gravity of him.
It was absurd how aware she was of that.
"I'm sorry," she said after a few steps, surprising herself.
Lucian glanced down at her. "For what?"
"For apparently attracting chaos whenever I leave the house."
He considered that. "I've met people whose personalities were a public safety issue. You're doing fine."
Allison let out a startled laugh.
Then she shook her head. "You know, I still can't decide if you're very funny or just deeply committed to sounding serious while saying ridiculous things."
"Yes."
She turned to stare at him.
"That isn't an answer."
"It covered both possibilities."
Her laugh came again, softer now.
The sound felt strange in her own ears after the last twenty-four hours. Unfamiliar. Fragile in a way she didn't like acknowledging.
Lucian noticed that too.
He noticed everything.
His voice lowered slightly. "There's a boutique ahead. Go inside."
Allison looked up.
A high-end designer store sat at the corner, its glass front lit warmly, displays arranged in precise little worlds of silk and diamonds and impossible restraint.
"What?"
Lucian's tone remained easy, but his attention was elsewhere now—angled behind them, toward the reflection in the passing windows.
"The man outside the café is still following. I'd like a closer look before deciding whether he's merely reporting or stupid enough to approach."
That should not have sent a shiver of safety through her.
But it did.
God help her, it did.
And that was the moment Allison realized this had gone beyond simple attraction.
Chemistry was one thing.
Chemistry was heat, interest, the dangerous curl of awareness low in her stomach every time Lucian looked at her too directly.
This was more unsettling than that.
This was trust.
Not complete.
Not blind.
Not earned enough for comfort.
But there.
Somewhere in the strange, private space between instinct and choice, Allison felt safe with him.
Really safe.
It made no sense.
So naturally, she stepped into the boutique without argument.
The hostess looked up at once, taking in Lucian first—because men who looked like him tended to disrupt atmospheres on arrival—and then Allison beside him, elegant and glowing in a way heartbreak hadn't managed to extinguish.
"Good evening," the hostess said smoothly. "May I help you find anything?"
Lucian's eyes swept the store once.
Two exits.
One back corridor.
No immediate threat.
Good.
He turned to Allison. "Browse."
She crossed her arms lightly. "That sounded suspiciously like an order."
"It was a suggestion wearing better tailoring."
That almost got another smile from her.
Almost.
Lucian inclined his head toward a display table near the center. "I'll be back in a minute."
Her brows drew together. "Where are you going?"
"To confirm whether the man behind us has enough sense to stay outside."
There it was again—that maddening calm, like he was discussing the weather instead of potential surveillance.
Before she could respond, he added, quieter, "You'll be fine."
And because he said it like a fact instead of a comfort, she believed him.
He moved away then, walking toward the side corridor with the same easy, unhurried stride that hid the fact that he was already calculating outcomes three moves ahead.
Allison exhaled and turned toward the displays.
Fine.
She could do fine.
She moved slowly past tables of handbags and jewelry, pretending to consider a tray of delicate gold cuffs while her mind raced.
Anthony had someone following her.
Of course he did.
Maybe because Sharon told him to.
Maybe because he'd finally realized she knew too much.
Maybe because for the first time in their entire miserable arrangement, Allison had stopped looking broken and started looking dangerous.
Good.
Let him be afraid.
She paused near a display pedestal where a structured emerald clutch caught her eye—sleek, expensive, sharp in the same way the dress she'd bought earlier had been sharp.
The kind of thing a woman carried when she wasn't asking permission to exist.
She reached for it.
And another hand grabbed it first.
Allison froze.
A familiar perfume hit her a second before the voice did.
"Oh," Sharon drawled. "Did you want this?"
Allison turned slowly.
Sharon stood there in a fitted cream dress, Anthony beside her in a navy suit, both of them looking like the polished front of a lie.
Of course.
Of course they were here.
Anthony's gaze swept over Allison, irritation already brewing in his expression. "What are you doing here?"
Allison stared at him.
The old her might have flinched.
Might have explained.
Might have apologized for taking up space.
The new her only tilted her head.
"Shopping," she said. "That's usually what people do in stores."
Sharon smiled, examining the clutch in her hands. "This is gorgeous."
She looked straight at Allison.
"But then again, not everything suits everyone."
Anthony stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You were supposed to finish the quarterly project revisions tonight."
Allison's face remained smooth. "Was I?"
His jaw tightened. "Don't do this."
"Do what?"
"This attitude."
Sharon sighed dramatically and slid the clutch under her arm. "Anthony, don't. She's clearly having some kind of episode."
Allison's eyes moved to Sharon's hand on the bag.
Then back to Sharon's face.
The smile she gave her was so soft it should have been harmless.
It wasn't.
"Put that down," Allison said.
Sharon blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said," Allison repeated, each word clean and precise, "put it down."
Sharon laughed.
Actually laughed.
Then hugged the clutch a little closer. "Oh, sweetheart, be realistic. You can't afford this."
Anthony looked around quickly, checking who might be watching.
"Lower your voice," he muttered.
Allison turned her gaze on him instead. "Why? Afraid people might hear the way you speak to me?"
His expression darkened instantly.
Sharon stepped in before he could answer, all sweetness sharpened into venom.
"It's his money anyway," she said, eyes glittering. "Everything you have came from Anthony. The clothes, the house, the cards, the life. Without him, what exactly do you have?"
For one split second, silence stretched.
Then Allison smiled.
And there it was again—that elegant, terrifying calm that had started unsettling everyone around her.
"What do I have?" Allison repeated softly.
Sharon lifted a brow. "Yes."
Allison took one slow step closer.
"I have better taste than you," she said. "For starters."
The hostess behind the counter made a strangled sound that might have been a cough.
Anthony's expression went murderous.
Sharon's face hardened. "You little—"
"And," Allison continued, voice smooth as silk over glass, "I have enough self-respect not to sleep with a man who needs another woman to do his job."
Anthony grabbed her arm.
Not hard enough to leave a mark immediately.
But hard enough.
The entire store went still.
"Allison," he said through clenched teeth, "you will finish that project tonight, go home, and stop embarrassing me."
She looked down at his hand on her arm.
Then back up at him.
Something in her eyes changed.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Finality.
"Take your hand off me."
Anthony leaned in. "You're pushing your luck."
Across the store entrance, two women paused.
The hostess went pale.
Sharon's smugness deepened, because she thought she was winning.
Then Anthony made his mistake.
"You forget who pays for your life," he said quietly. "You forget how easy it would be to leave you with nothing."
And Sharon, because she was incapable of resisting cruelty when she smelled weakness, smiled and added,
"You should be grateful Anthony kept you around this long."
The words had barely finished echoing when another voice cut through the store like a blade.
"I think that's enough."
Anthony turned.
So did Sharon.
And Allison—
Allison's breath caught.