Her half human bodyguard

The Gallery

The Kaine Penthouse had a doorman, an elevator that needed a thumbprint, and a chandelier that cost more than Justin’s mom’s house. He stepped off at the 60th floor wearing the suit Hale gave him. It fit. Barely. Fae blood meant he was broader in the shoulders than most humans, and tailors didn’t plan for “part-time monster.”

“Jesus,” a voice said. “You’re the intern?”

Lyra Kaine stood in the foyer. Red dress, black heels, hair like ink spilled down her back. She was five foot nothing and looked at Justin like he was a stain on her marble.

“Justin Pan,” he said. “Art department.”

“Right.” She didn’t offer a hand. “Did my father tell you the dress code was ‘funeral chic’ or did you just come from one?”

Rude. Check. Justin’s glamour itched under his cuff. “He said black tie.”

“He would.” She turned, didn’t check if he followed. “Rule one, Intern: Don’t speak to me unless I’m dying. Rule two: Don’t stand behind me. I hate breathing on my neck. Rule three: If anyone asks, you’re a sculptor. From Queens. You work in metal. Nod if you understand.”

Justin nodded.

“God, you’re tall,” she muttered. “This is going to be awful.”

Kind? Not yet. Romantic? Only if you counted the way she said “awful” like it hurt her to admit he existed.

The car downstairs was a Rolls. Driver didn’t blink at Justin. Lyra slid in first, all the way to the other side, pressed against the door like Justin had fleas. He got in, kept his hands on his knees. Iron in the door handle made his teeth buzz.

“Gallery’s in SoHo,” Lyra told the driver. Then, to Justin, without looking: “My father thinks I’m going to get kidnapped again. I think he’s paranoid. Which one do you think pays you?”

“Paranoia pays better,” Justin said.

She finally looked at him. Eyes were green. Not soft green. Knife green. “Cute. Don’t do that again.”

The gallery was called _Vessel_. White walls, cold air, people drinking wine and pretending to understand a canvas that was just blue. Lyra transformed when they walked in. Chin up, smile thin but bright, handshakes, air-kisses. Heiress mode. She was good at it. Too good. It looked like armor.

Justin took position: three steps back, left side, eyes moving. Door, windows, exits, that guy with the bulky jacket, that woman who’d looked at Lyra twice. Threat assessment. Army stuff. Fae stuff too — his nose caught things humans missed. Candle wax, old blood on the floorboards, and under it… something else. Something cold. Like winter air in July.

He scanned again. No black eyes. No frost on the windows. Maybe Hale was wrong.

“Intern,” Lyra said suddenly, appearing at his elbow. She’d ditched her crowd. “Champagne.”

“I’m on duty.”

“Your duty is to not embarrass me. Empty-handed at a gallery is embarrassing. Get me champagne, then hold it while I talk, then look brooding. You’re good at brooding.”

Rude. Again. Justin went to the bar. The bartender handed him a flute. As Justin turned, his wrist burned. Glamour was thinning. Too much iron in the building, too many people, too much lying. He could feel silver starting to push at his irises.

He took the champagne back. Lyra took it without thanks, sipped, and made a face. “Warm. Useless.” She shoved it back into his hand. Her fingers brushed his. Just for a second.

Her skin was hot. Human hot. No magic. Safe.

“Sorry,” she said. Then frowned, like she’d surprised herself. “I… don’t drink the gallery stuff. It’s bad. I just wanted to see if you’d do it.”

Test. She was testing him. Justin set the glass on a passing tray. “I’d do worse for 10k a week.”

“Would you die for it?” She wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Yes.” Truth. It slipped out before he could dress it up.

Lyra stared. Something in her face cracked, just a hairline. “That’s stupid,” she whispered. “Don’t say that.”

Before Justin could answer, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. The crowd made that “oooh” sound people make when they think it’s part of the show.

Justin didn’t think that. His blood knew. Cold. The smell was stronger now. Winter, and metal, and rot.

He stepped in, close, breaking her rule two. His mouth was at her ear. “Where’s the exit behind the kitchen?”

She went rigid. “How do you—”

“Now, Lyra.”

Her name. He used her name. Her eyes widened. Then she moved. No argument. She trusted him. For three seconds. That was enough.

They made it to the kitchen. Staff looked up. Justin grabbed a fire exit bar.

The door blew in.

Not opened. _Blew_. Off its hinges. A man stood there. Big. Bigger than Justin. Suit, no tie, and eyes like spilled ink. All black. No white. He smiled, and his breath fogged in the warm air.

“Little prince,” the man said. Not to Lyra. To Justin. “Cold Court sends regards.”

Lyra made a sound. Not a scream. A gasp. She stepped _in front_ of Justin.

Rude, kind, romantic. All three in one stupid, brave move.

“Don’t touch him,” she said to the monster.

Justin’s glamour shattered. His eyes went silver. His knuckles sparked gold.

Rule one: No feelings.

Rule two: Don’t stand behind her.

He broke both. He grabbed Lyra, shoved her behind him, and bared his teeth at the thing in the doorway.

“Run,” he told her.

“I don’t run,” she said, voice shaking.

Then she picked up a stainless steel sauté pan and stepped up beside him anyway.

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