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I caught the glass before it hit the ground, the thick-cut crystal still cold from the spelled liquor. The amber liquid sloshed up the side of the glass, but nary a drop spilled.

This little feat wasn’t magic—not really—simply instinct, muscle memory. Well, that, and the shriek of alarm blaring in the thoughts of the witch who nearly elbowed it off the bar.

My eye twitched, a spike of pain blooming in my temples at the sheer volume of her mind. 

Shit, not again.

The screech of her consciousness signaled that it was time to pay Sable a visit, and much sooner than I’d like. It had only been three weeks since she’d whipped up the last suppression elixir instead of the usual six. At this rate, I’d be broke long before I found a way to stop the constant barrage of other people’s minds invading mine. 

One would think I’d be used to the incessant buzzing filling my head, but as I aged, the thoughts only got louder, more painful, more debilitating. If I didn’t want to drink myself into an early grave or throw myself off a cliff, suppression was the only way to go. Plus, if anyone ever found out about my little talent, I’d be six feet under before I could even blink. 

Telepathy was forbidden. Not frowned upon, not illegal. Banned. There was no trial, no mercy. If anyone ever found out what I could do, I wouldn’t just disappear—I’d be erased along with everyone I’d ever cared about. 

I slid the glass back in front of her without a word, all too eager to get away from the witch. She didn’t so much as look at me, too deep in conversation with her companion—something about cursed heirlooms—her thoughts screaming about a grandmother who wouldn't die fast enough. 

Charming.

The Lock & Key thrummed—not from music, but from life. Magic hummed under the floorboards, tangled in the laughter, the deals, the lies my patrons thought were safe to tell here. They weren’t—especially not when I was behind the bar. What was said and left unsaid had never been safe from me. 

I’d built this place brick by brick, claiming a little slice of the Divide for myself. 

The Divide was supposed to be neutral ground—sacred, lawless, and inconvenient enough for the Crown to ignore unless it became useful. But neutrality didn’t mean safety, and it sure as hell didn’t mean peace.

When I first arrived, this corner of it had been left in complete ruin. Half a roof, rotting floorboards, and the kind of stench that kept even the desperate away. Everyone said I was wasting my time, but I saw the bones of something better. Something mine. With no family and no memory of my past before I’d woken up on the steps of an orphanage when I was just a child, it had been perfect for someone like me—a forgotten piece of land that no one cared about, just aching to be taken care of.

So I carved it out. Fortified it. Ward by ward, brick by brick, blood offering by blood offering. I’d scrimped and saved, stolen when I needed to, and done jobs I wasn’t proud of, but the bar was mine.

Now the Lock & Key stood like an anchor in the chaos. A haven for people who didn’t belong anywhere else. A place where magic pulsed through the woodwork, the liquor was spelled, and secrets spilled faster than the drinks.

Some came here for sanctuary. Some came for vice. All of them came thinking this place wouldn’t judge them. They were wrong. I judged everyone. But I let them stay, anyway—so long as they played by the rules.

Moving on with a fresh drink in hand, I weaved through the crowd of regulars and sketchy newcomers to deliver the concoction to Jex before swiping away his empty. He tipped his horns to me, his gray skin shimmering in the dim light. Most people assumed he was just another patron—big, brooding, covered in jagged ink that crawled up his throat and down both arms. But Jex wasn’t here to drink. He was here to keep the peace.

And by peace, I meant bones intact and blood off my floors.

I gave him a nod and turned toward the bar, only to find Rhett already in my way, leaning against the counter like he hadn’t a care in the world.

“You spoil him, you know,” he signed, his fingers quick and teasing. Rhett signed smoothly, one of maybe a dozen people in this room who knew how.

He hadn’t always. But working with me meant adapting—or leaving. Most regulars picked it up fast. The ones who didn’t either got tired of guessing or learned the hard way that I didn’t do repeats. Letting them believe I was deaf just made everything easier. 

No expectations. No small talk. No slipups. 

The truth was, however, harder. I wasn’t deaf, I just couldn’t speak. And if I pretended I couldn’t hear anything at all, I wouldn’t react to every errant thought that sliced like a pickax through my brain.

Still, I didn’t dignify his teasing with a response. Instead, I snagged the pricey bottle of Amoranthe he’d failed to recork and bumped it into his chest. Spilling that particular brew wouldn’t just cost us the spelled liquid. It would turn my bar into a giant orgy. 

No, thank you.

He caught it one-handed, grinning. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I died.”

I rolled my eyes and kept walking, but he was right. I would miss him—even if he drove me to drink most nights.

Rhett was infuriating—too pretty, too smug, and entirely too good at reading people without needing mind magic. If anyone in this place suspected the truth about me, it was him. And yet he stayed, working beside me like this bar was his, too.

It wasn’t, but I let him pretend.

I kept moving, the regulars giving me a nod or a lift of the chin. The newcomers looked twice—first out of curiosity, and then because they realized I hadn’t said a word. The smarter ones didn’t ask questions. The cocky ones usually didn’t last the night.

Moving from patron to patron, I refilled drinks, anticipating needs before they were spoken. Most didn’t bother ordering. They’d learned. If I handed you something, it was what you wanted. Or what you needed. Those weren’t always the same.

But the night seemed to be holding its breath, and it didn’t know why yet.

Jex leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, observing the room with that bored, violent expression he wore right before someone lost teeth. A pair of rowdy wolf boys near the back caught his golden eyes and immediately remembered how to behave.

Rhett tossed a bar towel at me as he passed, grinning like he hadn’t just left Amoranthe uncorked ten minutes ago.

“You missed one,” he signed, jerking his chin toward a goblin waving a chipped mug.

I raised a brow, flipped him off, and topped off the mug, anyway. The goblin beamed like I’d handed him gold, his green skin wrinkling in delight.

Rhett laughed and moved on, dragging purple smoke through a glass with practiced ease. It condensed into a vibrant fuchsia liquid that shimmered in the light. Most people needed a spell or a chant for that kind of flair. Rhett did it with a flick of his fingers and a wink.

This was the rhythm, the pulse of the Lock & Key. It was organized chaos on sacred ground, and I loved every square inch of the place. The night buzzed around me—magic, memory, lust, and longing—all of it wrapped in whispers, soaked into the wood and the walls. 

Then the door opened, and the whole place inhaled.

His mind brushed against mine—thick, cold, impenetrable—like falling into a frozen lake and realizing too late that there was no way back to the surface. I could barely catch a flicker of his thoughts, even though his mind pressed in on me as if it were seeking me out.

But one thought still slipped through.

She’s not what I expected.

I looked up, finding him through the crowd as if he'd whispered right in my ear.

Kieran Veyne. Second-born prince. The king’s favorite. And the one handed the Crown Province while his older brother got pushed to the edge of the map.

He waltzed into my bar like he owned the gods-be-damned foundation. Maybe his family had at one point, but he didn’t own it now, and he sure as shit shouldn’t have stepped one toe in a place like this. 

The Divide was neutral territory, and the Lock & Key doubly so. Even royals obeyed the rules if they knew what was good for them.

But he walked in anyway, carved from shadow and arrogance. His coat caught the light as if it were stitched from midnight. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Icy eyes that scanned the room, then landed on me and didn’t move.

Every conversation nearby faltered.

A vampire girl at the bar went pale, like she’d just seen her worst nightmare in the flesh. 

She wasn’t wrong.

He approached with deliberate ease without so much as an ounce of posturing or flair, just quiet confidence, and something dangerous curled beneath his skin.

Before he approached the bar, I was already pouring his drink.

He hadn’t said a word, but the edges of his mind—intent, recognition, interest—were enough. They were blurry and far too slippery to hang onto, but they were there. He studied me for a moment and then pursed his lips as he examined the glass. 

“Impressive trick. But I haven’t ordered anything yet.”

His voice was smooth like honeyed steel, low and deliberate—the kind of sound that could slice without ever raising in volume. I both cursed and rejoiced that I wasn’t really deaf. A voice like that was meant to be heard. 

Just not by me.

I slid the glass toward him. Dark liquor, neat and laced with a bitter tincture meant for clarity and caution, something he needed if he thought waltzing through the Divide was a good idea. 

Meeting his gaze, I signed slowly and deliberately, “Drink it or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me either way. But you’ll need it if you want to stay.”

His brow ticked up just slightly, like he was trying to decide whether I’d just insulted him or read him for filth, but either way, he’d understood me. This meant one of two things—he’d either studied sign language for Court, or someone had warned him about the “deaf” bartender long before he’d ever stepped into my bar.

I was betting on the latter and that did not give me the warm and fuzzies.

He lifted the glass, sniffed the concoction like a food critic, and sipped as if he expected disappointment. Surprise flickered across his face—quick, but there—before he wiped it clean. The soft clink of glass on wood followed, and I fought the urge to flinch.

“Not bad.”

Rhett leaned in beside me, eyebrow cocked as his shoulder bumped mine. “Was that supposed to be a compliment? You’ve got to do better than that, man.”

Kieran didn’t look at him at first, just kept his eyes on me. Those icy blues were measuring, sizing me up in a way that left me unsettled. Normally, if someone were staring at me like that, I'd be privy to every thought in their brain, but not Kieran. He was just as enigmatic then as he was since he’d set foot in my bar. 

And I didn't like it one bit.

Then, slowly, he turned his head, eyeing the spot where Rhett touched me. Rhett held his gaze with a lazy smile as he held up his hands in surrender. 

“Right. Your funeral,” he muttered, and slipped back down the bar.

I reached for the nearest glass, wiping it with a cloth I didn’t need. Kieran didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just watched me, and somewhere in that stillness, my control slipped—just for a second. It was long enough to feel something cold and sharp skimming the edge of the room.

Not thought. Not spell. Just... intent. And it wasn’t his.

The moment I recognized that cold, quiet threat that had just slithered into my bar wasn’t coming from Kieran Veyne, the first attack hit.

The front window shattered inward in a burst of glass and smoke. Screams tore through the room. Magic surged—raw and uncontrolled—as a wardstone detonated above the door in a flash of acidic green light.

A hexbomb—the kind that didn’t warn, it confused, it maimed, it killed. And it sure as Vireth wasn’t one of mine. A cloaked figure stepped through the acrid haze, blade in hand, eyes locked on the bar, on him. He didn’t speak, but his mind screamed with purpose. 

Strike fast. Kill the prince. No witnesses.

I moved before the thought finished forming. My hand closed around the small, silver-edged paring knife Rhett had left by the fruit tray: a lifeline I hadn’t known I’d needed until just that moment. 

And then I threw.

In the midst of the chaos and frightened patrons, the blade caught the attacker right under his collarbone just as he lunged. He roared in pain before his scream cut off in a gurgle as he crumbled to the ground. And then all seven hells broke loose.

Another looming figure appeared near the back—taller, faster. Magic danced along their fingertips, bright and crackling. They raised a hand to cast, cloudy blue mist coating his fingers before Jex moved.

One moment he was against the wall, and the next he had the caster by the throat, slamming them into a support pillar hard enough to splinter the wood. His golden eyes gleamed as a demonic smile curled his lips in delight. 

To my left, another attacker darted toward the goblin booth. I vaulted the bar, heart pounding as I grabbed the nearest bottle—heavy in my hand, cold, familiar—then hurled it with every ounce of fury I had. The glass shattered across his face, and the freezing enchantment inside burst into a cloud of frost. He stumbled back, cursing, clawing at his withering skin as it blackened and cracked. 

Kieran hadn’t moved, not at first, but now he was a blur of motion and death.

He disarmed the fourth one in a single, fluid motion—twisting the weapon from his hand, driving his elbow into their throat, and sinking the attacker’s own wicked dagger into his ribs before he hit the floor.

It wasn’t flashy or panicked. Kieran’s movements were simply a level of precision that was out of most people’s reach. Then again, being a centuries-old vampire had its perks. 

By the time the smoke cleared, three attackers were dead, their blood staining the wood floor bad enough that it would take years to kill the smell. One moaned on the ground, clutching his ruined face. 

Spelled mist curled toward the ceiling as I surveyed the damage to my one and only livelihood. Tables and chairs were overturned, some broken in half. Bottles of spelled liquor and glass littered the bar and floor, smashed into a million pieces as their contents burned through the rough-hewed planks. Someone was crying softly behind the counter, their frightened, almost childlike thoughts nearly bringing tears to my eyes.

Rhett was already herding patrons toward the cellar door. Jex dragged the surviving attacker toward the back, blood streaking the floor behind him.

Yanking my knife from the corpse at my feet, I straightened slowly, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. Everything I’d built, everything I’d worked for, felt like it was slipping away, my tenuous hold on my life falling like sand through my fingertips. My bar was in shambles, and there was no way to pay to fix it. The prince of Morathen watched me use my ability, and now there were dead bodies littering my floor.

The room had gone silent. Not quiet—silent. Like even the magic was holding its breath. In that hush, I stood over the body, weapon dripping, heart pounding, no longer invisible. I wasn’t just the mute bartender anymore—not after this. Not with blood on my hands and a corpse at my feet.

I’d just made myself a target.

Not because I killed him, but because of how I knew to do it. The weight of every secret I’d ever kept settled on my shoulders, and still, I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because the moment I did, I’d have to face what came next.

Then I lifted my gaze to his.

Kieran looked at me, really looked.

His gaze drifted to the velvet choker at my throat like he knew what was behind it. Then to the attacker at his feet. Then to the blood staining my palm.

“Who the hell are you?” he murmured.

Not curious. Not impressed.

Just... interested.

And I still had no way to answer.