I barely have time to kick off my heels, pausing in the dim hallway to breathe in the hush that always feels a little haunted after a night with the Boswells. I’m savouring the moment: free, for as long it lasts, from other people’s loyalties or longing. London is a purr outside my windows, rain washing the city clean.

I’m thinking of nothing weightier than tea when I see the glow beneath the kitchen door. The hush of a presence. Of fate, maybe. Fate my behind! Who the fuck is the latest self proclaimed guest?!

My heart ticks a little faster: the way it always does when my kitchen is alight without me doing it, when years of survival instinct warn me I’m not as alone as my feet on the parquet would like to believe. I reach for the doorknob—

And suddenly, in a blur, a hand comes over my mouth: firm, callused, too large to belong to any city-slicker. Another arm, solid and strong—locks tight around my waist, lifting me off the hall runner. For a moment I thrash and twist, adrenaline snapping through me. Fight, scream, something!

But then: gods below, the scent floods me: that ghost-bright green of mountain herbs crushed between strong fingers, a note of smoke and wet stone, something wild and so out of place in London it makes my mind reel.

My breath catches. I still.

His breath is at my ear, a whisper no more than a vibration.

“My goddess,” the voice is guttural, right against my cheek, “tell me if you want to talk to the one in your kitchen… or do you want me to take him out?”

My heart stutters and kicks: equal parts shock and a joy so fierce it’s nearly terror. I twist in his grip, desperate to see his face. Asdar sets me down, his touch suddenly reverent, eyes hungry and hooded under the hallway’s dim bulb.

Gods below, he’s here. The impossible made flesh, and blame it on any magic you like, I throw my arms around his neck, dragging him into the clinging darkness of the closet, needing the feel of him as proof.

He leans in, lips crashing down on mine—hungry, worshipful, as if months of longing scrape away everything but touch and breath. The taste of herbs, salt, and memory. My hands tangle in his hair, his mouth urgent at my throat, and the city dissolves: leaving only wolves, gods, and something older than either.

His mouth is fire, the herb-sweet taste of mountains threading through the musty dark of my own coat closet. For one exquisite, dangerous moment, I’m gone—lost to the press of Asdar’s hands around my waist, the way the city and all its rules dissolve to nothing but need. I drink in the heat of his skin, the impossibility of his being here in London, in my arms, against all sense and borders.

But as his breath stirs my hair, memory crashes back—the shadow in my kitchen, the reason I came home, the whole tight-drawn thread of loyalties and consequences.

I press my palm gently but firmly to Asdar’s chest, feeling the wild drumbeat beneath.

“Asdar—stop. For just a moment. Tell me: who is it, the one in the kitchen?”

He closes his eyes, drawing in my scent, maybe trying to embed himself in this single heartbeat before letting go. When he speaks, his voice is low.

“Tall man, blond hair greying at the temples. Black suit, expensive smell—all the careful, diplomatic neatness of a boardroom killer, trying to pass for ordinary.”

Tarmo. Of course.

I hold Asdar’s face, letting our foreheads touch, letting the wolf in him know this isn’t a dismissal but a promise.

“Wait for me. Just here. I have to talk to him. There are things… no one else can solve but me.” There’s a tremor in my voice, but I make myself steady.

“Let me go face the world, then I’ll come back to you. I always do.”

His lips brush my knuckles, slow and reverent—a gesture that speaks of a thousand winters and every legend I ever doubted. His voice is gravelly with longing:

“I will be here. Call me if you need the wolf. Or—” a sly glint—”if you change your mind.”

I step from the dark, running shaking fingers through my hair, trying to reassemble myself into Dr. Delange: composure, wits, the giddy ache of almost-lost control hidden beneath a calm exterior. I breathe in the city, and Tarmo’s worldly issues, and for this moment, I choose responsibility.

I square my shoulders, open the kitchen door, and walk into the waiting light—heart still echoing with the mountain’s song, words already waiting on my tongue.

The kitchen is warm, too bright after the closet’s dark. Tarmo sits at my table, back straight but shoulders slumped, one of my mugs cradled between his hands. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. When I close the door, the latch sounds like a starting pistol.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, flatly.

He doesn’t stand. Just nods—avowing—and for a moment I almost forgive him everything.

“I knew you wouldn’t take the jet.” His accent thickens when he’s nervous.

“I didn’t want a phone call. Not after everything.”

We both know London was never buffer enough. He could always find me. Always did.

“The threat’s real,” he continues, voice dropping.

“We’ve handled it for now. But Sandi’s in Istanbul, and things there aren’t safe or simple. She needs you.” A pause. “I need you.”

I keep my hands at my sides, posture rigid.

“Let’s not pretend this is only about Sandi. You want me there because I’m good at fixing your messes. And because you can’t let go: even after you decided my safety was negotiable.” I don’t raise my voice. I want the words to sting. “You let me believe you were in danger ‘for the greater good.'”

He stares into the steam rising from my kettle as if he’s seeing something more than tea.

“You’re the constant in the chaos, Elena. I know what the world’s been like for you since—”

“Am I, do you?” I fold my arms, steel myself against the old ache.

“You put me at risk not for a mission, but as bait. That changes things between us, Tarmo. I’m here. I’ll listen. But don’t come to my kitchen talking about love and trust unless you’re ready to own what you did.”

Silence seeps between us.

He looks away, clearing his throat. “I regret it. Every day.” His voice is raw. “But I’d do anything to keep you safe now—even if it means walking out that door for good.”

Behind me, the memory of Asdar’s arms—wild, unconditioned, uncalculated—tethers me to something truer than this well-meaning guilt.

“You want my help with Sandi?” I keep my voice flat. “You’ll get it. But understand there are parts of me you don’t get anymore. You can’t mortgage my safety for strategy and then pretend nothing’s changed.”

Shame writes itself across his brow—but there’s relief too, as if just having me in the same room is penance and balm.

He reaches into his pocket, slides a small envelope onto the table. Plane ticket, Istanbul highlighted.

“Just say you’ll come,” he whispers.

I hesitate, the weight of two worlds in my lungs.

“I’ll go. For Sandi. Because the work needs to mean something.” I meet his eyes. “But you and me? We’ll have to start again. If we ever do.”

He bows his head: gratitude and heartbreak, old love and new regret. “I’ll wait, Elena. For as long as it takes.”

I pick up the envelope. My fingers brush his—out of habit, not promise.

As he gets up to leave, he speaks once more, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll accept every demand. I want the piece of your heart that no fieldwork or legend has stolen.”

I pause at the door, hand on the frame. The crude and sardonic retort catches in my throat.

Dream on and take a number, to go fuck yourself.

I open my front door, the way only the truly wounded know how to do.

A flash of silver eyes: I did wonder where Mr mighty aka Mikael was.

In the hallway, I hear the soft tread: a wolf’s echo, the pulse of something wild waiting just out of view. I carry many shadows with me now: past and future warring in my veins, Istanbul pulling me forward, and the cost of trust—broken and mending—etched in every step.

I.Ph.