The black rose sat on the edge of the table, a vivid contrast against Eve's cluttered apartment. She stared at it, tracing the curve of its petals with her eyes, as if the rose itself held answers to the questions spinning in her mind.

Lucian had left a little while ago, reluctantly, after she’d assured him she’d lock every window and door. Now, in the quiet hum of her small living space, her thoughts refused to settle.

Eve shook her head, trying to push the memory of his scarred face from her mind. She didn’t have time to dwell on strange men with cryptic warnings. Her shift at the café started in a few hours, and she couldn’t afford to be late again.

The streets of Blackstone were quieter during the early morning hours, the city still shaking off the haze of the night before. Eve pulled her coat tighter, her breath fogging the air as she hurried toward the café.

The warm scent of coffee and fresh pastries greeted her as she stepped inside, and for a moment, the tension in her chest eased. The familiar bustle of regulars ordering their drinks and the steady hum of conversation gave her a sense of normalcy.

“Eve, you’re late again,” her manager, Susan, called from behind the counter.

“Sorry,” Eve mumbled, slipping into the back to grab her apron.

By the time she stepped onto the floor, the café was in full swing. She moved between tables, balancing trays of coffee cups and plates of pastries, letting the routine distract her.

It worked—until she saw him.

HE sat in the corner, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he leaned over a cup of black coffee. The scars on his face were even more prominent in the harsh morning light, but it wasn’t his appearance that made her pause.

It was the way he looked at her, like he was waiting for something.

Eve’s pulse quickened, but she forced herself to keep moving. She wasn’t about to let some stranger intimidate her. Still, she couldn’t ignore the way his presence seemed to fill the room, as if the shadows themselves bent to him.

When she approached his table, her voice was steadier than she expected. “Do you need anything else?”

He looked up, his gray eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, he didn’t speak, his gaze searching her face like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

“No,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “This is fine.”

Eve nodded and turned to leave, but his next words stopped her in her tracks.

“You don’t know, do you?”

She turned back, frowning. “Know what?”

Killian leaned back in his chair, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “Nothing,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not yet.”

Her chest tightened, but she refused to let him see how much he’d unsettled her. “Enjoy your coffee,” she said curtly, walking away before he could say anything else.

Later That Night

“Killian Dusk.”

The name hit her like a slap. Eve stared at the photo on Lucian’s phone, her mind racing.

“That’s him,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Lucian’s head snapped up. “You’ve seen him before?”

She hesitated, debating how much to tell him. Finally, she nodded. “He was at the café today. And last night, in the alley.”

Lucian’s expression darkened. “Eve, this isn’t just some thug. Killian Dusk doesn’t show up randomly. If he’s around, it’s because he’s planning something.”

Eve sank onto the couch, the weight of his words pressing down on her. “What could he possibly want with me?”

Lucian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied her, his brow furrowed. “Do you know anyone who might have enemies like him? Anyone in your family?”

Eve flinched. “I don’t have a family, Lucian. You know that.”

“Your aunt, then,” he pressed. “Did she ever—”

“She wouldn’t,” Eve snapped, cutting him off. The frustration in her voice surprised even herself. “My aunt raised me after my parents died. She barely talks about them, let alone anything dangerous.”

Lucian held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. I just… I don’t want you caught up in something you don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Eve muttered, her gaze drifting back to the black rose on the table.

She didn’t tell Lucian about the note.

“Why would someone like that care about me?”

Lucian hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I don’t like it.”

Neither did she.

But as she sat in the quiet of her apartment later that night, her thoughts kept circling back to Killian’s words: You don’t know, do you?

What didn’t she know?

And why did she get the feeling that whatever it was would change everything?