Page 6 of Moonveil and Magic

Aggy walked over, placing her hands on my shoulders. Her grip was warm and solid. “You look like a woman who didn't spend her morning hiding an illegal artifact under a flower fridge, Ivy. Let’s drink to the squad. To secrets. And to finding someone hot enough to make us forget our own names.”

“Cheers,” we all echoed, the schnapps-spiked cocktails going down smooth.

The Glitch, a converted warehouse on the edge of the docks, was a sensory overload where humans came to lose themselves.

The lighting was a rhythmic pulse of ultraviolet and deep crimson, cutting through the thick haze of artificial fog. The bass was a low-frequency thrum that vibrated in my chest, a physical heartbeat that synchronised with the room.

“My gods, I love this song!” Lola shrieked over the roar of the crowd, grabbing my hand. Even though she was yelling, her face remained stoically unimpressed, which only made me laugh harder.

We vanished into the throng. For the first time in weeks, the shard wasn't the loudest thing in my head. The heavy thud-thud-thud of the electronic beat and the shimmering heat of a thousand people just wanting to move took over.

I let myself go. I watched Aggy own the floor, her curves moving with a confidence that made half the room stop and stare. Mia was a blur of energy beside her, while Lola stood between us, dancing with graceful precision and wearing her "I’d rather be at a library" expression.

“Ivy, look!” Aggy yelled, leaning into my ear. She pointed toward the VIP lounge overlooking the floor. My heart did a slow, heavy roll. Even through the strobing lights and the crowd, I saw him.

Lucien.

He was sitting in a plush velvet booth, looking like a king observing his subjects. He wasn't dancing. Just watching. The moment his eyes locked onto mine through the haze, the music seemed to fade into the background.

“Oh, damn,” Lola whispered, appearing at my side. Her blonde hair caught the ultraviolet light, and even though her face was a mask of cold boredom, I could see the protective spark in her eyes. “Is that the guy from the shop? The one you said was ‘just a customer’?”

“He’s… interesting,” I managed to say.

“He’s hungry,” Aggy corrected, squinting up at the lounge. “He looks like he wants to carry you out of here and keep you. Honestly, Ivy? I don't hate the vibe.”

I laughed, a sharp, breathless sound, but I didn't cower or look away. Instead, I tossed my head back, caught Lucien’s gaze, and danced harder. Had he tracked me all the way to this crowded floor, or was he here on some misguided, arrogant notion that I needed his protection? Let him watch. Let him wonder exactly what secrets I was burying beneath the beat of the music.

I wasn't a damsel. I was the storm.

Lucien’s Visit

Ileaned against the mahogany counter of my shop, my fingers tracing the edge of a dried lavender bundle. Kingy’s visit this morning had left the air tasting like copper. He had been pacing the floorboards, his usually easy-going energy replaced by a restless, sharp tension that made my skin prickle. "Just keep your wards tight, Ivy," he’d muttered, leaning over the counter, his voice dropping to a cautious low. "There are whispers that the Storm Legion is moving again, and they’re not your run-of-the-mill warlocks. These are the kind that leave nothing but scorched earth and static in their wake. If the clouds turn black without a forecast, you get out of here. Understand?"

I’d dismissed it as another scare tactic once he left, forcing myself to go back to my inventory. The Storm Legion was a ghost story, a legend used to keep independent witches like me looking over our shoulders. I didn't think for a second the storm was coming for someone like me.

But then midday hit, and a different kind of storm walked through the door.

I glanced up from arranging a fresh display of indie poetry books as the bell chimed, ready with my usual bright smile, only for the words to die in my throat.

Lucien Vale stood in the doorway, all elegance, as though the world itself bent to his stride. The fitted charcoal suit hugged his frame, as if it had been tailored for him. Broad shoulders, trim waist and trousers drawn tight over thighs that made my pulse stutter. The sunlight behind him caught the faintest glint of ink crawling out from beneath his crisp white collar.

Everyone in Ebonvale knew his name. Lucien Vale wasn't just another warlock. He was the city's silent architect, the man who controlled the flow of both gold and magic through the Vale Syndicate. He brokered finance and power. Rumours say he could talk a group of warlocks into handing over their own grimoires with nothing but that pretty face and that salacious smile. He was the high-stakes middleman of the magical underworld, the one you went to when a blood-debt needed settling or a kingdom needed a loan. He was the kind of man you did not invite into your shop unless you were ready to lose something you loved.

He shut the door gently, deliberately, as if closing us into a world apart. His eyes, steel grey and sharpened like a blade, tracked me with unnerving precision. “Ivy Thornton,” he said smoothly. “You’ve heard the whispers. You’ve felt the shift. You’re doing a fine job of masking it, but Kael and I have specialised instincts. He can scent a change in the wind from miles away, and I… I can hear the frequency of lies, and shards even as they clear the city gates.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, serious hum. “We found you because we’re tuned to deep magic. But don't mistake your luck for safety. Right now, the disturbance is a whisper only a few can hear. By tomorrow, it will be a scream… and then everyone will be at your door.”

Before I could answer, Violet wove herself between his legs, purring loudly. The calico pressed her paws against the fine fabric of his trousers, claws sheathed but insistent. Without even looking down, Lucien’s hand slipped into motion, scratching behind her ears, stroking along her spine with absent familiarity. His gaze never left me. I noticed that her claws never once snagged the fine, fitted charcoal suit, which was a feat of feline control.

Goddess above. My thoughts tangled hopelessly. Why does this man wear a suit so well? I looked at his arms, thick muscle under all that elegance, flexing against the seams. And his thighs… holy hotness. And that tattoo peeking out of his collar? Who gets to be this unfairly put together?

My lips parted, tongue sliding over my bottom lip, before I realised. I bit down softly, staring shamelessly as heat rushed low in my belly. I hated myself for the way my body reacted before my mind could catch up. Was this magic, or simply hunger? Either way, I did not like being at the mercy of anyone, especially not a man who looked like he collected secrets the way other men collected cufflinks.

He was still talking, his voice a low, smooth baritone that I was finding incredibly hard to focus on. Right. Something about the wards? Or was he trying to warn me about the hunters? I forced a tight nod, trying to look like a person who was processing vital information and not someone drowning in lust.

Focus, I chided myself. But then I stared at his hands—those thick fingers scratching Violet like he knew exactly how to touch… what would they feel like on my waist? Oh gods, or on my breasts? I tried to concentrate and keep my head out of the proverbial gutter!

I startled, realising I had walked closer without meaning to.