Clarence, as it happens, is not only good at breaking hearts—but also rather excellent at breaking furniture.

  The obsidian desk splits when he slams the report down. Two halves. Perfectly even. As if it couldn't bear the burden itself of the bad news: Two missing souls, courtesy of the Elite Squad.

  Callahan instinctively swallows after hearing the crack but does not back away. He has, after all, seen Clarence in far worse moods. The kind that made grown reapers sob and throw up in the same breath. Compared to that, bisecting a desk is actually him being calm.

  Losing souls has recently been a Soul Management thing. The Elite Squad has prided itself on retrieving those rogues only to be slapped by their own joke. The moment Matthew finds out, Clarence will never hear the end of it.

  But it's more than that. You see, when the guards lose a soul, it's not like misplacing a usual rogue in the human playground but more like releasing a predator.

  The Elite Squad oversees fetching the world's concoction of the worst people. Rapists, terrorists, murderers, serial killers—you name every type of sinner, and they collect and bring them to the Veil.

  "It will only take a short time for them to manifest as Type 2s and even if they do possess humans, they will be smart about it." Clarence rubs his temples, eyes grazing over the file that looks less like a dossier and more like a small, grim novel, thicker than the regular. "These are a pair of cold-blooded psychopaths. They haven't been caught in the living world because they know how to cover their tracks, they only stopped because Death had better timing than the authorities. And now—"

  "We'll find them, Sir." Callahan says like a promise.

  Clarence sighs, closing the folder, "Send some scouts to the area where they died. Souls tend to be sentimental about the place where they took their last breath." Clarence orders as calmly as he can, "And Callahan,"

  The vice captain looks to the Captain, straightening up like a soldier before a firing squad.

  "I don't want another report like this again. Do you understand?"

  He does a ninety-degree bow to show how apologetic he is of this mishap, "Yes, Captain, Sir."

  "Go."

  Callahan walks out of his office looking like he has been to war and lost. And the series of unfortunate events just keep on coming because now Clark is blocking his way out. She has both her arms stretched wide while facing him. She is dressed warmly today, no unwarranted show of skin, but that smug smile is still plastered on her face. He would have thought her pretty if he did not hate her very much.

  "Need a hug, princess?"

  Damn it. That nickname. Born from a single sparring match, now weaponized by every smart-mouthed squad member. Even Declan uses it now, mostly to annoy.

  He steps in and warns her, "Call me that again and I'll take your head." he slaps her hand away making her turn.

  She twirls, mockingly, making him catch a whiff of her.

  Damn it, he swears again in his head, she really does smell nice. He sulks to the door slamming it shut after him.

  Clark grins watching Callahan strides out with ears so red, and she is the only one who believes he is blushing out of rage.

  The sound of a door opening behind her makes her turn and there comes Clarence, gloomy but dignified as a funeral wreath.

  He stares at her wide-open arms and that remnant of the smile that she just mocked Callahan with, and the cold that comes from him has made Clark lower them slowly and tuck them behind her back.

  The captain pulls his sleeves up and checks his watch, then glares back at Clark. She's half an hour late, which is strange for her, all things considered, because she's punctual. His eyes brush down at the length of her skirt, longer than the usual and his expression softens. It can't be because of what he said last time. "With me." he says and walks ahead.

  Clark follows him, careful that she maintains at least two steps behind him. She doesn't say a thing; she just lets him guide her to what seems to be a new annex to their office.

  He opens but does not hold the door. Clark does not complain, he never holds the door for her. The new conference room looks just like the last one except the screens are bigger in this one.

  They sit still in a screaming silence, both trying hard not to look at each other.

  Clark shifts uncomfortably in her chair, leans back then crosses her leg. And under that translucent glass table, Clarence could see the unjustifiably high slit. The amount of thigh she is showing should make him feel ballistic, but instead, a slow grin graces his lips.

  Somehow, he is glad that she is still her–rebellious and still has no respect for Veil issued uniforms.

  But something bothers him, "You're late today." he starts.

  "I got held up." Clark answers, still avoiding his eyes.

  "That's strange, because I have been in my office all morning. Did someone else pin you up against the wall on your way here?"

  Clark's eyes shoot up, and she scoffs. "You're not even the least bit apologetic about it?"

  "No." he swiftly answers, "Like I told you, it's part of your...education." his lip pulls up to a slight grin.

  "Oh yeah, it's part of you grooming me." she smirks, "I hope in more ways than one, Captain."

  He does not rise to that, but somehow that exchange broke the awkwardness between them. She is easier to deal with when she's flirty and a menace, rather than when she's silent like a saint.

  Anya walks into them mid-banter. "Morning, you two." she says looking from one to the other before passing them the case files.

  Clark waves at her cutely while the captain just takes the file in front of him.

  Anya proceeds to click on the screen in front and the interface of the Type 2 tracker program, now named: ECHO Trace (Ethereal Calibration for Harmonic Observation), displays. On it is a map and a red blip–which means a new case.

  A few seconds later, the blip disappears and then appears again, not ten meters away from the original pin.

  Both Clark and the Captain disregard their folders and lean in closer as they observe the blip disappear yet again and appear in another location.

  "You got a flea." Clark says and the two just stare at her weirdly, "you Veil babies call them 'hoppers', in Hell, they call them fleas, more poetic if you ask me."

  "Right." Anya proceeds with the briefing, "Yes, it's a flea—I mean a hopper!" she slips, "The signal appears in this commercial area and a pretty popular venue for the living."

  A satellite view of the area appears then a street showing high-end boutiques, it's in uptown. And is it quite popular like she says—for weddings.

  "There's an on-going investigation on recent murders on the Chateau Mont Blanc—luxury hotel on the most exclusive street uptown."

  A nineteen-storey French renaissance style building flashes. Its pristine marble base and white bricks scream of innocence, a stark contrast to the next set of photos that, in a word, resemble gore.

  Granite floors covered in roses and lace mixed with blood, trampled wedding cakes, and dead grooms.

  "There have been three deaths already—brides killing their grooms after exchanging rings."

  Three victims appear next. One has been stabbed by a candelabra, the next with a cake knife, and the last one has been bludgeoned with the wedding arch.

  "Just last month they had ten weddings in their ballrooms, two of them ended badly. This month, they have twelve bookings. Two weeks ago, victim number three was killed." Anya continues.

  "So not everyone is getting killed?" asks Clark, "Rogue has a type, so what do they all have in common?"

  Anya displays the profile of each, aside from them all sharing the same group of coordinators and some suppliers, there is no proven link that connects them.

  "How is it picking its prey?" Clarence asks while perusing the files, but as Anya says, aside from the obvious, there isn't any glaring reason why they have been chosen among the pool of couples. "How about the brides?"

  "All suffering from breakdowns and PTSD. The initial report from the detectives say that the statements of the suspects are identical, they cannot remember what happened, once they realize what they have done, it was too late. It's hard to scan the field since the rogue is quickly jumping from one host to another, so—" she hands them both cards, "that's the name of the main coordinator in Mont Blanc–Irina Blake, already got you an appointment later this afternoon."

  Clark eyes at the card suspiciously then to Anya, "What do you mean you got us an appointment?"

  She beams, "I know right? I'm awesome. They say booking the Mont Blanc is next to impossible, but I planted a little fear on this wedding forum and fortunately, one of the couples bailed!"

  Couples.

  No way.

  "No." they both say together.

  "What do you mean? It's perfect! Undercover mission, pretend to be engaged couples planning the wedding of the century!" She opens her tablet and hands it to the captain, "I need your signature here, Sir, for the budget of this operation."

  Clarence looks at the figures on the screen then to Anya, "That's a lot of zeroes."

  "It's not every day we're marrying off the Captain of the Elite Squad, the finance department is more than happy to green light this. This is more of a formality, really. Sign please." she taps the screen again.

  Clarence reluctantly affixes his signature, then Anya hands him two envelopes. "Reaper credits have been exchanged to the living realm currency, those are your black cards, spend wisely."

  He slides the other envelope to Clark, and she smiles.

  "I feel like doing some pre-wedding shopping." She takes out the card and kisses it.

  "Just earlier, you didn't agree to this," Clarence eyes her with thinly veiled suspicion—as if he can see the dollar signs glittering behind her lashes.

  "That's before they said I can have some retail therapy." she grins. "Now, what should we get first?" she asks Anya.

  "Well, you can't be engaged without the ring. We have a schedule before lunch at the Veil's Vaults."

  –

  There are places in the Veil that even the dead approach with a touch of veneration.

  The Vaults, for instance, are not built so much as conjured into permanence by some divine ordinance to exist and house lost things ever since the beginning. The Department of Reaper Equipment and Artifacts keeps it running—because there's a department for that sort of thing.

  Clarence hates the place.

  It smells like dust and nostalgia, and the custodian—an ancient soul named Mistress Belladona who had, once upon a time, officiated Beelzebub's seventh wedding—always insists on calling Clarence 'sweetheart'.

  He walks around, running his eyes on the relics and treasures of forgotten empires, burnt kingdoms and extinguished noble houses. He stops at one of the arches, seeing some familiar standards and points, the mistress slinks to where he is, "Sweetheart, are you sure you want to take from this lot? They may be cursed."

  "Open it."

  The Mistress waves her hand and the wall behind the arch open, she goes inside and after a few seconds comes out with a black box. She hands it over to Anya who is straining her neck peeping inside. "Careful with that one, they're very old and valuable."

  Anya nods and carefully sets the box on one of the tables. "Alright, lovebirds. Time to pick the engagement ring."

  The black case in front of them opens with a quiet click. Inside: diamonds, sapphires, rubies—each one glittering with an impossible gleam. Rings that look plucked straight from ancient ballads or star fire forges.

  Clark blinks. "These are Veil properties?"

  Anya smirks. "On loan from the Vaults. The Veil's richer than any kingdom in human history, babe. We collect stuff. Empires fall, kings die, but we keep the jewellery."

  Clark leans closer. "So, we're just casually borrowing immortal bling for an undercover mission?"

  "Technically," Anya says, "we're just trying to bait a rogue soul into thinking you're about to get married. So, pick the one that screams 'you'll die for me' but also says 'I'm soft and deeply in love.'"

  Clark hums. "That's a very thin line."

  Unbeknownst to either of them, Clarence has not chosen these trinkets randomly. The vault where they came from bears the sigil of a long-forgotten house—The Cardalls of Lansforth. And on this collection stands one ring above all others—a deep blue, dark as storm-swept seas sapphire, the size of a knight's thumbnail set upon a slender band of white gold, pale as moon forged steel. Around it circled a crown of diamonds, fourteen in all, small and perfect, each one catching the light like a blade glimpsed in shadow. Delicate and quiet. But ancient. The same ring he once gave Marion, in another life, when he'd asked her to marry him—not as a reaper, not as a captain, but as a man. A duke, kneeling before his bride to be, the woman he'd pledged everything to.

  His duchess.

  He doesn't look at the ring now. He just stands still, a ghost behind his own face, waiting.

  Clark's fingers hover over the choices. She disregards the usual dazzling suspects—no interest in the loud or gaudy.

  Then her hand pauses.

  "Hello, what's this?" she murmurs.

  Her fingers pick up the sapphire.

  "This one," she says, holding it up to the light. "It's quiet. Beautiful. And kind of sad. Like it remembers something."

  Clarence doesn't react. Not visibly.

  But his throat works once.

  Anya nods approvingly. "Excellent choice. Classic, tragic, slightly haunted."

  Clark turns toward Clarence with that wicked gleam. "Put it on me, then. Go on. Bended knee and all. Ask me to marry you."

  The captain raises a brow, ever the picture of stoic sarcasm. "I always imagined you'd be the one on your knees."

  Clark chokes.

  Anya sputters, "Oh my God—"

  Clarence shrugs, deadpan. "What? She sets 'em up, I knock 'em down."

  Clark glares flustered but still smirking. "Kneel, Captain."

  He looks at her then, and something flickers in his gaze. A shadow of memory. Of a command once spoken not in jest, but in reverence.

  He kneels.

  Not in mockery.

  But with precision.

  With the weight of something ancient behind the motion.

  Clark's lips part, startled. Anya has gone silent. Somehow, the room has too, and Belladona is about to tear her hair out.

  Clarence doesn't look away as he takes her hand, his touch humble and gentle. He slides the ring onto her finger slowly, like sealing a vow.

  Then he speaks—not loud, but not quiet enough to be ignored.

  "Marry me," he says, voice low. "Be the one. For I am yours. Truly. And always."

  Anya nearly collapses onto the table next to the mistress.

  Clark is absolutely, utterly stunned.

  But it does not last long, her reflex kicks in and defaults to the only thing she knows: deflection.

  "Well," she coughs, "someone's been reading too many romance novels in his free time."

  But Clarence doesn't even smirk.

  He just brushes his thumb across her knuckles like he's committing the moment to memory. Then he stands up. "Was that good enough a proposal for you?"

  Clark takes back her hand. "No."

  "Could've sworn for a second you liked it." he snickers.

  Her face starts to turn red, and she looks away, "Anya!" she calls that made the other jump, "Let's go." When she comes, she drags her out of there.

  "Curious." Belladona whispers behind Clarence, "Something old and cursed like that ring usually bites, but it didn't even fight when you put it on her."

  "Because that's its rightful owner."

  —

  They arrived at the living realm dressed not like themselves. Their regular black ensemble is nowhere in sight. Tonight, they look like a regular couple, dressed in matching lighter shades. Since they did not know what triggers the rogue's interest, Anya thought it best to capture the same vibe as the last victims.

  Clarence is dressed in a fine grey suit. His gloves—always his first defence—are gone. And Clark, well, she steps out of the mist, into the golden light of a streetlamp in a dress that is much too good for Clarence's own sanity.

  The slit runs high, scandalous. The fabric whispers secrets as she moves. And when she tilts her head and moves closer, something in him shifts.

  "What do you think?"

  Beautiful, he almost says. The word echoes, unspoken—caught in his throat like a prayer he doesn't know he still believes in.

  "You and the killer bride share a brain cell," he mutters, just to have something mean to say.

  "She had good taste," Clark replies, hooking her heel slightly into the sidewalk crack for drama. "And I have nice legs."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He offers her his arm, stiff and unsure. It's what he knows—measured, distant. Safe. But she curls her lip at the gesture.

  "Can't we hold hands like normal people?" she grabs his hand, and the first contact left him breathless.

  This is the first time in this afterlife that he has touched her, skin against skin without defence.

  He stays there, eyes fixed on her, waiting.

  "What is it now?" Clark asks.

  She's still her, he thinks. Still Clark.

  He has been so afraid that if he gets too close, or touches her like this, the memories will come back to her. And there are times when half of him wants her to remember—but then the other half trembles at the thought of what she'll become when she does.

  A screech shatters the moment, the comms exploding with static in their ears.

  "Sorry! I spilled something." Anya talks from the command post, "I have eyes on Irina Blake, Good luck, Mr. and Mrs. Black."

  The false name hits him like cold water.

  Clarence gently slips his hand from hers, letting go far more reluctantly than he should have.

  "Come on," he says, the weight of something unavowed caught in his chest. "Time to work."

  –

  The receptionist shuts her book the moment she sees them. Not "a couple"—no, that wouldn't do. They were a pair, in the way storm clouds pair with lightning, or daggers pair with velvet sheaths. Beautiful, dangerous, and not at all the sort of people who made appointments.

  She fumbles for the button on her phone console. "Ms. Irina, your three o'clock is here."

  There's a beat of silence, and then Irina's voice, honeyed and efficient: "Send them in."

  She opens the door, eyes carefully distributed between the two, but really only seeing one. Clarence. Tall, blade-cut cheekbones, with the exact sort of jawline that haunted her paperback covers. She glances down at her book. The morally grey anti-hero with a tragic past looked exactly like him. Down to the disapproving eyebrows.

  The pair glide past her. Clark has a smile that's all teeth and theatre. Clarence moves like someone who has never had to try.

  Inside, Irina stands to greet them, aglow with performative warmth. "Congratulations, soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Black. Please, have a seat."

  Clarence pulls out the chair for Clark with the mechanical precision of a man defusing a bomb. She sits. He joins her. A chasm of polite distance yawns between them, which Irina notes immediately. Before she can comment, Clarence yanks Clark's chair closer, close enough for his arm to reach should he need to touch her.

  Irina claps once, brightly. "That was so romantic!" She beams as though love were a well-reviewed product. "Your secretary said the wedding is this week. This week! Practically unheard of." She laughs in restrained hysterics, "But don't worry. Irina specializes in the impossible."

  She hands over a glossy folder with a flourish. "Vendors. Coordinators. All the best. And—per your request—we're using the same team as the last wedding. You're not superstitious, are you? Because the last one was..."

  "We've seen it," Clark says, voice flat as a pressed flower. "Ghastly. But we're not superstitious. What did happen to them? The last couple."

  Irina pauses, the sort of pause reserved for something fragile falling. "Oh. Tragic, really. They were very much in love. You wouldn't have thought the bride would... do such a thing."

  Clark tilts her head, digging. "How much in love? On a scale of 'I like you enough to share fries' to 'I will burn the world for you,' where did they land?"

  Irina lowers her voice. "The second. Utterly obsessed. Couldn't keep their hands to themselves. But don't worry—my staff are excellent at ignoring things."

  Clark leans in then, resting her head on Clarence's shoulder. A mockery of affection—or a warning. "We're just like them, aren't we, my darling?" she purrs, pinching his cheek with the affection of someone handling a live grenade.

  Clarence glares at her. His smile arrives three seconds late and entirely hostage. "Yes," he says, "We are."

  –

  The first order of the next day: Cake.

  Future Mr. and Mrs. Black arrives at the patisserie, a pastel-coloured hellscape of rose gold signage, peony centrepieces, and endless trays of miniature fondant.

  They are already standing by the door when Anya brings them some news.

  "So, last night, I was browsing through the wedding forums again and there's this entry regarding the victims." she starts, "Like Irina said, the last couple were very much in love, the first two the same. Practically fused at the hip. Gross, adorable, and possibly dangerous."

  Clark looks at Clarence, "You hear that? If that's what the rogue is attracted to, we need to be clingy," she places a possessive hand on his tie, and pulls him just close enough to rattle his afterlife. "You need to up your performance a bit, darling."

  "Not just that," Anya interrupts, "I got into the security feeds of all the shops they went to and get this, all of them did it. Very graphic, I needed some holy water to cleanse myself."

  Clark grins, "You don't say."

  The captain pulls his tie away from her. He does not like that smile, she is already thinking of something close to being illegal. Or immoral.

  "So, we're hunting a prude rogue?" Clark twirls her hair in her finger, "Someone who thinks the holy act should only come after vows?"

  "Looks like it. I've checked the other couples, those before them and thankfully, they are clean. The catch is, the three victims did their indiscretion on different shops, so we cannot exactly pinpoint where the rogue will appear. But you're in luck, Couple One did it in the cake shop you are about to enter."

  –

  Clark crosses one leg over the other, propped like a smug little chaos queen on the velvet loveseat beside Clarence, who is currently sipping espresso like it's a lifeline to whatever remains of his self-control.

  They're five minutes into the tasting.

  Three cakes in.

  And already, she's plotting something.

  He can feel it.

  "You know," Clark hums, fork swirling through a smear of raspberry mousse. "I think we should go with the triple-tiered chocolate truffle with the strawberry compote swirl and the salted caramel centre."

  Clarence doesn't even look up. "That's not a cake. That's a war crime."

  "Oh, my darling," she coos, loud enough for the wedding coordinator hovering nearby to hear, "don't be such a killjoy."

  She pinches his cheek.

  He flinches and smiles. Tightly. "Of course, my darling."

  Clark clings to his arm and smiles like a puppy, "You're the best hubby ever."

  That one physically hurts him.

  The coordinator beams. "You two are just adorable! I can tell you're really in love."

  Clarence considers self-immolation. He turns to the side and whispers on the comms, "Anya, give us something."

  "Sir, there is faint signature that just appeared near the shop, but it seems it's following something or someone–"

  The bell above the door jingles.

  Some attendants enter and then a new couple. Radiant. Beaming. Practically glowing with the sort of sickening, gumdrop affection that makes teeth ache. They have matching outfits, matching phone cases, possibly matching kidney donors. And worse—far worse—they start with the same cake Clark and Clarence have just tasted.

  "Signal reading is clear, the rogue energy is inside the shop, looks like it followed the new couple after you. It has set a target already."

  But Clark does not accept defeat like this. "Give us a minute, we'll win it over."

  It is war.

  They are presented with the next sample—lemon buttercream piped with white chocolate curls—and Clarence holds out a finger to swipe a bit of frosting from the plate.

  That's when it happens.

  Clark grabs his wrist, lifts his hand—and licks the frosting clean off his finger with one slow, deliberate drag of her tongue.

  The room tilts.

  Clarence struggles to breath.

  "Energy level rising, I repeat, rogue energy level rising, you got his attention, Clarkie."

  "Oops," she says sweetly, lips glossy with sugar. "Did I do that out loud?"

  He stares at her like she just recited a curse in ancient Latin.

  The coordinator, the attendants and even the new couple are staring at them.

  Clark leans in, whispering theatrically into Clarence's ear. "Put your hand up my leg, Clarence."

  "I will cuff you," Clarence mutters through his teeth, smiling for the coordinator.

  Clark is still in his ear, grinning, "Darling, please." she sounds almost begging. The captain gently puts his palm on her thigh and Clark lets out a very low whimper and her arm immediately flings to Clarence's neck, "Clarence—baby, not here." she looks at the coordinator in front of them, hands on her mouth in shock. "Wait, 'til we get home, maybe I'll let you use those cuffs." she runs her fingers gently on his jaw.

  The attendants pretending to serve cake are all watching now and one of them is smiling wickedly.

  The coordinator pretends to cough, and Clark lets go of Clarence, now all red up to his ears. He cannot believe she just made everyone inside the shop think that he is a hot-blooded groom who couldn't get enough of his bride.

  "Have you considered writing your own vows?"

  Clarence deadpans, "Every day is a vow to survive."

  Clark steps on his foot, "Oh darling, you jest." she says, twisting her heel down. Clarence pushes his foot away before she can make a hole in it. "We're working on it; it will be the stuff of love songs for sure."

  By the end of the appointment, Clarence looks like a Greek statue left too long in the rain—stoic, damp, and one twitch away from breaking into powdered marble.

  Clark, meanwhile, is blissfully giddy.

  She smears a final dab of frosting on his cheek.

  He doesn't even react.

  She wipes the frosting with her thumb, sucks it off with a scandalous pop.

  Clarence does react this time.

  "Do you want us to get arrested?" he hisses as they walk out.

  She slaps his rear with the satisfaction of a woman who knows she's winning. "You're doing amazing, my darling."

  "Kill me."

  "Not before the gown fitting tomorrow."

  –

  The moment they step inside the boutique, a collective gasp hushes the room.

  Every woman inside—brides-to-be, assistants, even the elderly seamstress bent over a hem—pauses mid-breath. Eyes fixate not on Clark (who is radiant but also exudes a sort of untouchable chaos)—but on Clarence.

  It's the suit, probably. Or the bone structure. Or the fact he carries himself like he just walked out of a painting labelled The General Who Never Lost a War, or a Woman.

  "Oh my God," someone whispers. "He looks like royalty."

  Another says, "Is that his fiancée? She looks like she'd set fire to a chapel."

  Clark catches it. She turns, beams at Clarence, and—because she's Clark—loops her arm through his and pretends to kiss his jaw, smearing just a bit of her lipstick onto his skin. "Smile, my darling. You're making the peasants restless."

  Clarence doesn't smile.

  He just gently reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pristine handkerchief, and wipes his jaw like a man sanitizing a holy relic.

  The consultant—a woman in her fifties with decades of restraint—guides them to the fitting rooms. "Shall we begin?"

  Clark does not begin gently.

  The first gown she picks has a slit that goes up to the hip and a neckline that technically qualifies as a deep plunge into a moral crisis.

  The consultant gives Clarence a look.

  Clarence clears his throat, carefully averting his gaze. "That one is... perhaps not ideal. The priest would protest."

  Clark emerges in another: red lace over crimson silk, corset lacing up the front like a Victorian seductress who moonlights as a duchess of the damned.

  "Too breathtaking?" she purrs.

  Clarence doesn't even look up from the fabric swatch he's pretending to be interested in. "It's a wedding, we're not burning Rome."

  The next gown has feathers. The one after that has strategically placed cut-outs. One particularly cursed attempt has an open back and a bodice made entirely of pearls.

  Clarence begins praying—not to God, of course, but to his own rapidly depleting patience.

  Clark, on the other hand, thrives.

  Until.

  Gown number seven, possibly eight. Clarence walks up to the rack himself. He scans with the same expression he uses when tracking rogue spirits—focused, quiet, absolute. And then he stops.

  He lifts a gown gently from its hanger.

  It's soft ivory, with a structured bustier delicately embroidered with small, wild flowers. Not roses, not lilies—but little white blossoms that look like they were kissed by wind and rain. The kind that grows uninvited. Resilient. Honest.

  He holds it out to her.

  Clark blinks. "That one?"

  He doesn't meet her eyes. "Try it."

  She disappears behind the curtain. A few minutes pass in silence. When she steps out, the room becomes quiet like a church, even the other brides-to-be have stopped their own fitting.

  The bodice clings to her like second skin. The skirt falls in soft waves, airy but grounded. The embroidered flowers climb up her torso like they were always meant to belong there. And for once—just once—Clark looks like someone a god might choose, not someone a demon might fear.

  Clarence looks at her and something in his chest aches.

  Because the flowers remind him of Lansforth.

  Of her—when she was his duchess.

  He walks to Clark and the attendant flutters away, probably to give them privacy or to avoid combusting in the gravitational field of their absurd chemistry.

  Clarence stands there, hands behind his back like he's preparing to be knighted or executed.

  Clark's still adjusting the front of the gown, tugging at the bustier and mumbling, "Why do all bridal dresses feel like tactical corsets?"

  She turns. "Zipper, please."

  He hesitates.

  Just a heartbeat, before he steps onto the podium and his hands find her waist.

  The silk is cool under his touch. Her back is bare from shoulder blades to lower spine, pale skin, smooth and warm. She smells like those white blooms now. Or maybe that's just memory playing a cruel trick. His eyes fall on her reflection on the mirror, and he remembers...

  ****************************

  Cardall Manor's dressing room was bathed in soft afternoon light, the golden glow catching on floating specks of dust. Marion stood at the centre of it all, poised on the podium, the delicate hush of fabric whispering against her skin.

  She was stripped down to her finest undergarments, a vision of pale linen and silk, while the seamstress worked swiftly, pinning and adjusting the cut of the cloth draped over her. Every few moments, deft fingers would tug, smooth, and reshape, the promise of a perfect fit taking form around her.

  Marion barely noticed when the air shifted.

  A presence entered the room—silent but felt.

  Clarence moved with the kind of precision that made even the weight of his footsteps imperceptible. He paused at the threshold, gaze sweeping over the tableau before him, the delicate composition of fabric, flesh, and patience. Then, with nothing but a flick of his hand, the seamstress understood.

  She gathered her tools, murmured a silent departure, and left.

  Marion did not notice.

  Not yet.

  Clarence stepped forward, his movements unhurried, calculated, the way a predator might stalk toward its prey.

  He halted behind her. Close. So close.

  Still, she remained unaware—until he touched her.

  At first, it was a mere ghost of contact, his fingers grazing the bare line of her arm, light enough to be mistaken for the seamstress's habitual adjustments. But then—his mouth.

  The press of warm lips against the curve of her neck sent a shock through her. A sharp inhale—her spine stiffened; her pulse leapt. That was not the seamstress.

  "Clarence," she breathed, a name, an accusation, a confession.

  He did not answer. Not in words.

  Instead, his hands moved—slowly—reaching for the very fabric meant to shield her. One by one, his fingers found the silver pins holding it in place, plucking them free deliberately, letting them fall like tiny, glinting betrayals at their feet.

  The cloth loosened.

  Slipped.

  Fell.

  She sucked in a breath as cool air kissed newly bared skin, her reflection in the gilded mirror before her now entirely his to admire.

  Amusement ghosted through his voice when he finally spoke, his fingers trailing possessively down her spine.

  "Much better."

  —

  Marion stood frozen, her breath shallow, watching her reflection as the last of the fabric slipped from her shoulders. The fine cut of the cloth, carefully pinned just moments ago, lay discarded in a whisper of silk at her feet.

  Clarence had yet to move away.

  If anything, he grew bolder.

  The warmth of his palm ghosted over the curve of her bare back, trailing deliberately down the delicate dip of her spine. He was not rushed, nor hesitant. This was a man who enjoyed watching his handiwork—who relished in the control he had so easily claimed.

  Marion swallowed, her pulse a wild, unsteady thing.

  "You dismissed the seamstress," she murmured, the realization coming late, her voice softer than she intended.

  Clarence hummed in agreement. His fingers traced the faint imprint where the cloth had pressed into her skin. "You didn't even notice," he remarked, low and rich, like the amusement was meant only for himself.

  Her gaze met his in the mirror. His eyes, dark with quiet intent, held hers captive.

  "I should cover myself," she said, though she made no move to do so.

  His hands slid to her waist, thumbs brushing against the lace of her undergarments. "Should you?"

  A shiver ran through her. He was toying with her now. The heat of him so close, the slow, deliberate way he moved—it set her nerves alight, made her aware of every inch of her exposed skin.

  "Someone could walk in," she pointed out, though the words lacked conviction.

  Clarence only smirked, pressing a kiss just beneath her ear. "Let them."

  Her breath hitched.

  There was no mistaking it now—this was not about simple amusement.

  He wanted to undo her. And worse, she feared, he was already succeeding.

  Marion's fingers curled at her sides, nails pressing into her palms as she fought to steady herself. The heat of Clarence's mouth lingered against her skin, the imprint of his lips branding her.

  She should have stepped away. She should have pulled the discarded fabric from the floor, wrapped herself in the safety of propriety, and put an end to whatever this was.

  But she didn't.

  Because he hadn't moved.

  And she hadn't wanted him to.

  Clarence's fingers skimmed the edges of her undergarments, deliberate in their slowness, tracing the delicate lace with a touch far too reverent for a man so unapologetically cruel.

  "You're trembling," he murmured against her neck, his voice smooth, as if he were merely observing, not responsible. "The great Marion Highcourt."

  She swallowed hard, meeting his gaze in the mirror once more. The way he watched her—it wasn't just hunger. It was devotion.

  "Am I?" she whispered, feigning indifference.

  Clarence smiled then. Not his usual smirk, but something quieter, something dangerously indulgent. A private amusement only she was allowed to see.

  "Liar."

  Before she could argue, his hands moved—under the silk, sliding higher, fingertips ghosting over the swell of her breasts.

  Her breath faltered. "You should stop."

  Clarence tilted his head, considering her words, before pressing another slow, lingering kiss just below her jaw. "Should I?"

  The worst part was, he was right to ask.

  Because she wasn't pulling away.

  And heaven help her—she didn't want to.

  —

  Clarence watched her through the mirror, reading every shiver, every sharp inhale as if they were confessions written just for him.

  Marion swallowed hard, trying to summon some semblance of control, but control had never been hers—not with him.

  His lips ghosted over her collar bone, his voice dark with amusement.

  "I spend a fortune on silk gowns for you." he murmured, as if the thought suddenly struck him. His fingers skimmed down, pressing lightly against her stomach. "And yet, I find I much prefer you like this."

  Marion's breath hitched.

  He let the statement settle between them, his hands mapping every inch of her exposed skin, revelling in the way she trembled beneath his touch.

  "Like this," he continued, voice dangerously low, "where I can touch you whenever I please. No laces, no fastenings. Just you, open and available—mine."

  The boldness of it should have made her put a blade on his throat, but all it did was ignite something deep and reckless inside her. She met his gaze in the mirror, tilting her chin in a way that was both a challenge and invitation.

  "Then you'd miss the excitement of ripping those silks off me," she countered, her voice smooth, unwavering. "And we both know you enjoy the hunt as much as the prize."

  Clarence went still.

  His grip on her waist tightened, the hunger in his gaze turning sharp. Clarence's lips curled into something dark as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.

  "A reasonable bargain," he admitted, his voice thick with approval. "I can't wait, for you to become my wife."

  Then, without warning, his fingers hooked beneath the delicate straps of her undergarments—and pulled.

  ****************************

  "Clarence?" Clark calls his name and that brings him back.

  He doesn't answer.

  Instead, one hand reaches around her waist. Not possessive. Not lewd. Just resting, like he needs the contact to stay grounded. Then, he gently pulls the zipper up.

  "You look..." His voice fails. He clears his throat, tries again, quieter. "It suits you."

  Clark tilts her head slightly toward him, lips almost brushing his jaw. "Because you picked it?"

  There's no smile. But something in him softens.

  "No," he says, finally stepping back, hand falling away, "because for a second there... you looked happy."

  She turns to him, still barefoot on the plush carpet, dress trailing behind her like smoke.

  And something unspoken passes between them—some echo of a life that only one of them remembers fully but both still feel in their bones.

  Clark breaks it, because if she doesn't, they might both drown.

  "Alright, lover boy," she says, voice flipping back to bright and wicked, "We'll go with this one."

  Clarence exhales, like waking up from something dangerous. "Thank God," he mutters.

  Clark winks. "No, thank me."

  —

  After the fitting, Anya alerts them that the rogue signal just appeared inside the boutique. One of the people in there is the rogue, hiding in the skin of a human. Watching. Waiting.

  Clark eyes Clarence and grabs his hand.

  "Come on, my darling," she says sweetly. "Let's be naughty."

  "What," Clarence replies flatly.

  But she's already dragging him. In one smooth motion, she yanks him inside one of the fitting rooms, slams the door shut, and clicks the lock.

  The space is small. Too small. Their bodies almost touch. The soft light above casts shadows that are much too flattering for a public changing room.

  "What exactly is the plan?" Clarence asks, tone all grave and scorn.

  Clark grins, placing her hands on his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world. "We're bait, remember? Rogue only targets couples who don't keep it zipped until marriage."

  He stares.

  She reaches up, breath brushing his jaw. "So, we're gonna give them a show."

  Clarence blinks. "Define 'show.'"

  She moans.

  Loudly.

  Clarence almost chokes.

  She smacks the wall once, hard. "Oh yes, right there!" she shouts in a breathy, ridiculous voice. "You animal!"

  Outside, there's the unmistakable sound of heels pausing.

  Clarence looks like he wants to die. "Clark."

  She moans again—longer this time, filthier, like she's in a bad soap opera.

  "CLARK."

  She cups her hands around her mouth and yells, "Stop it, Clarence, you're too big!"

  There's an audible crash outside.

  Clarence leans against the mirror, hands over his face. "I am going to kill you."

  "Later," she stage-whispers. Then—louder—"Not there, my legs still hurt from last night!"

  Clarence is not okay.

  Clark is moaning—moaning—right into his ear, pressed close in this tiny, suffocatingly warm fitting room. Her perfume is cloying in the best way. Her voice, annoyingly convincing. And her breath, with all those dramatic gasps and theatrical whimpers, is doing something to him he refuses to acknowledge.

  "Clark," he growls her name under his breath, jaw tight. "Stop overdoing it."

  She smacks the wall again and lets out an absolutely obscene noise. "Clarence, oh—"

  He snaps.

  In a single motion, he pins her against the mirrored wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her wrist before she can play the next round of the Clark Parker Show.

  "Enough," he says, voice low, gravel edged with restraint.

  And she freezes. Blinks up at him. For once—blessedly—silent.

  She doesn't move. Doesn't smirk. Doesn't tease.

  She just watches him, breath caught somewhere between a joke and something else.

  He should let go. He means to.

  But before she can slip past him, he tugs her back and reaches for her blouse.

  There's a soft pop as the top button gives way, the fabric parting just enough to hint at sin. He runs a hand through her hair roughly, messing the perfect waves she'd spent twenty minutes pretending not to style.

  Then—slower, more intimate than it has any right to be—he drags his thumb across her lower lip, smearing her pink lipstick slightly, soft pressure turning sultry as he swipes the colour off her skin.

  Clark doesn't breathe.

  Clarence, with military precision, wipes the lipstick now staining his thumb on the pristine collar of his shirt—just enough to look like contact.

  He pulls his tie loose with one swift tug, rumples his hair with both hands, and unbuttons the top of his shirt.

  Because if they walk out looking polished, it won't sell. The rogue's watching. They must look like they just had sex in a fitting room.

  Clark leans against the mirror, catching her breath—and catching his, apparently. She grins up at him. "Details," she murmurs, voice all smoke and amusement.

  Then, deliberately, she wipes her thumb along her bottom lip and presses it gently to his mouth—smearing a soft hint of her lipstick across his lips.

  Clarence flinches. Just slightly. But she sees it. Feels it.

  It's like a ghost of a kiss.

  Her eyes search his.

  But then he clears his throat, steps back, and gestures stiffly to the door.

  —

  The door swings open with a theatrical creak that Clark's pretty sure she didn't cause, but hey—drama serves the mission.

  She steps out first, blouse slightly unbuttoned, hair tousled in that artfully ruined way, lipstick half-gone like a girl who's been thoroughly kissed. Or worse. Or better.

  Clarence follows.

  And time stops.

  The boutique descends into silence. Consultants mid-walk freeze. Brides-to-be gawk. Even the mannequins seem to lean in closer.

  Clarence looks... ruined.

  Tie loosened. Shirt slightly unbuttoned. Collar stained with lipstick. Hair rumpled like he's been dragged out of heaven and dropped into a sin he didn't want to stop committing. His expression is unreadable—calm, blank—but it only adds to the effect. That whole silent, smouldering, I-just-ruined-someone-against-a-wall energy.

  It's devastating.

  The tall redhead consultant gasps. One of the bridesmaid customers stumbles and drops her phone. Someone in the corner murmurs, "Holy hell," under her breath.

  Clark bites back a grin. Oh, they're definitely the centre of attention.

  One of the younger assistants clasps her hands to her chest, starry-eyed. "That's not fair," she whispers to her friend. "He looks like a shadow lord. I would let him—"

  Her friend elbows her, blushing. "Shut up, they can hear you."

  Clarence, ever the professional, glances straight ahead and walks like none of this is happening. Like he hasn't just become the star of every wedding consultant's romantic fantasy. Like he doesn't notice the heat radiating off the entire room.

  Clark, however, revels in it. She walks beside him with a smug little sway, letting the whispers ripple around them like confetti.

  "Did you see his lips?!"

  "Look at her hair—oh my god, they were definitely—"

  "I would sell my soul for one minute alone with that man."

  Clark leans toward Clarence, voice pitched low just for him. "You're really popular today."

  His jaw tics and his ears red. "Shut up."

  There is a low hiss just after Clark and Clarence go out. "You will die...you will die..."