The man who stepped through the door was tall, quiet, and alarmingly composed. The kind of composed that suggested deep personal trauma buried under six layers of self-denial and tightly buttoned collars.
He didn't speak.
He didn't smile.
He just walked in, glanced at the broken chandelier, and removed his gloves with the solemnity of a man preparing to do taxes or murder.
Seraphina gestured to the table. "Have a seat, darling. I promise I only bite on Thursdays."
He didn't sit. Instead, he placed a leather satchel on the table, opened it with precision, and began arranging scrolls, ledgers, and a quill that looked far too expensive for this dying estate.
Rhys leaned over and whispered, "Is he here to audit us or assassinate us?"
"Unclear," she whispered back. "Either way, I'll have him collared by the end of the week."
The mage—because that's what he was, no doubt—paused his paperwork only once. "I heard your invitation involved a salary, a contract, and… 'unlimited emotional distance.'"
Seraphina smiled wide. "I always know what people want."
"And if I refuse?"
She slid a scroll across the table. Her name was already signed in blood-red ink. The seal at the top shimmered faintly—a glamour enchantment woven into the parchment itself. Subtle, elegant. Dangerous.
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "This document has already accepted my mana."
"Of course it has," Seraphina said, swirling her tea with all the menace of a polite knife. "You scanned it the moment you stepped inside. Your mana brushed the runes—standard reaction for anyone magically trained."
"And that counts as consent?"
"Intent plus contact," she said sweetly. "You looked too hard. The enchantment assumed you meant to enter negotiations. And here we are."
Rhys blinked. "That is so illegal."
"Not if the enchantment is weak enough to avoid registration," she said, like a woman who had definitely been banned from at least three magical ethics boards.
Lucien stared at the contract. Then at her. Then, like someone who had just realized he'd been outmaneuvered by a half-dressed baroness and her overweight familiar, he sat.
"Name?" she asked, sipping again.
"…Lucien."
She grinned. "Welcome to House Ashgrave, Lucien. You'll be in charge of tax evasion, summoning circles, and emotional suppression."
Lord Snobberly purred on cue, rubbing against Lucien's ankle like he'd just recruited a new introvert to the squad.
Lucien looked down.
"…Does he always stare like that?"
"Only when he likes you," Seraphina said.
"…He's blinking one eye."
"Yes," she said, deadpan. "That means he's flirting."