“Heaven closed its gates. I built my throne from the pieces.” one of #ᴋᴏʟꜱᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄʟᴇꜱ
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Grim did not laugh with him.
He watched the performance—the bitter smile, the weary tilt of his head, the dramatic sigh. All the lovely distractions Cillian used when the truth came too close.
Then the Fae spoke of magic.
Something cold entered Grim’s expression.
“I am Lust.”
“A relic may explain why you crossed the world to reach my door.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward Cillian’s mouth. “It does not explain why you took my hand once you arrived.”
He stepped back at last.
"Morgan."
He repeated it once, low and deliberate, as if fixing it somewhere in memory.
At her answer, the corner of his mouth turned upward.
"Both."
Grim took another slow drink, eyes settling on her with a little more interest now.
"That can be dangerous."
There was no warning in his tone. If anything, it sounded like approval.
He leaned back against the bar, giving her room despite the weight of his attention.
"But I have always thought a little poor judgment makes a long week easier to survive."
Grim watched him fold beneath the weight of his own confession.
The flinch should have satisfied him. It did not.
His hand slipped from Cillian’s chin. For once, he did not use the closeness between them as a weapon.
The word felt strange in Grim’s mouth. Too human. Too honest.
“You did not leave because we might destroy one another. You left because I had become capable of hurting you—and you had become capable of hurting me.”
His gaze hardened.