'Is there any chance you two could just piss off outside for a bit?'

Lucius and Amy looked up from where they sat in the corner, their faces alight with amusement as Harper glared at them both from across the room.

They'd been caught up in some comic book Lucius had been reading out loud, both collapsing into fits of giggles that roused a smile on my lips, but which earned had them nothing but increasingly dark scowls from Harper.

He'd been in a particularly foul mood for three days now. Of course, he was always prone to foul moods, being the difficult, temperamental bastard that he was, but this had felt different and had seemingly come out of nowhere. I could usually pin-point exactly what or who was going to annoy him, but this time I didn't even know what had prompted his brows to look so permanently heavy and his eyes to darken with a look that had the power to flatten buildings.

Any attempts at cajoling the answers from him – whether by simple conversation or by trying to seduce him, because let's face it, that usually worked – had resulted in him barely talking to me at all, and instead I'd been subject to him muttering under his breath, watching him stomp around like a bear with a very sore head, and listening to him suck in his breath at everything that irritated him, almost as if he was about to blow up like a balloon and burst. He was brooding on something, although for the life of me, I had absolutely no idea what that might be. All I knew was that the tension had been building exponentially for days now and I wasn't looking forward to the moment when he finally exploded and probably took out half the vampire base with him.

I reached out, tugging gently at a white-blonde lock of Lucius' hair. 'Go on,' I said to the boy. 'Pretty sure Josiah is outside. Go and torment him for a while.'

Grinning – because they loved tormenting the seer, and he strangely seemed to enjoy it just as much – they both scrambled up from the floor and ran for the door of the school hall, shooting mischievous glances at Harper as they passed him. Despite his mood, they adored Harper, and seemed to be the only ones here who were unfazed by his dark temper and harsh words. I didn't know many who enjoyed his company when he looked ready to erupt, but Amy and Lucius seemed completely at home within his storm, and I had a feeling that quite often their presence prevented him from unleashing it as he might usually do. They both irritated and yet calmed him, and I would often marvel over that, just as much as I did their unfailing bond with him. Harper didn't do affection easily – fuck, how I'd learned that the hard way – and he wasn't even particularly affectionate or warm with them, but still I sensed how important they were to him, and vice versa.

In the corner, just behind where Lucius and Amy had been sitting, Fenton lazed back on an old two-seater sofa he had salvaged from a charity shop on Battersea Park Road, one leg dangling over the arm of the chair and looking disturbingly similar to how Garrick used to sit when reading. Since the Final War, Fenton too had found his place within the eye of Harper's hurricane; their once-brittle relationship, now transformed into a comfortable connection of brotherhood that consisted of an unspoken respect and a constant banter where both tried to outdo each other in an endless pissing contest of jibes and insults.

Peering over the top of his mobile phone, he raised one quizzical brow at me, before flashing me a wry grin. He was as mystified by Harper's mood as was I, but unlike me, who hadn't let it go, Fenton had merely observed the oncoming storm with amusement – something I knew hadn't gone unnoticed by Harper and which only seemed to irritate him more.

I sensed it coming and sighed inwardly. Fenton's eyes held too much of a playful glint for this to end well, but before he'd even begun to open his mouth, Harper spoke up.

'Fuck off, Grainger.'

Fenton's grin widened as he propped himself up on one elbow. 'Did I say anything?' he mock-protested.

'You were going to,' Harper replied. 'So, whatever it was, fuck off.'

'Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to come hunting,' Fenton said, feigning innocence, turning back to look at his phone, his mouth curling up into a smirk.

It was two seconds of hanging. Two seconds of waiting for the punch I knew was coming.

'After all, every new Dad needs a break from the kids once in a while.'

Fucking Hell, Fenton.

I groaned and glared at him as he chuckled. True to form, Harper exploded from where he'd been perched on the edge of the stage, fists clenched tight, knuckles straining through skin. He looked ready to launch himself at Fenton, and then, surprisingly, he pursed his lips and stormed from the room, slamming the door back so hard that I didn't even know how it managed to stay on its hinges.

Fenton looked wide-eyed at the doorway and then back at me, cocking his head to one side.

'Well,' he said, whistling. 'Now, that, was new.'

He was right. That had been new.

Harper walking away from a fight?

'You just had to do it,' I said, standing up, staring at him in exasperation and shaking my head. 'You couldn't just keep your mouth shut for once.'

He rolled his eyes and rested his head back on the sofa. 'Oh, come on, Megan. That bear was ripe for poking with a big fucking stick and you know it. It's about time he stopped brooding over whatever it is that's pissing him off and gave everyone else a break. Besides, I'm tired of everyone coming to me with all their bloody gripes and problems, all because they're too scared to speak to Cain.'

Fenton, once Garrick's right-hand man south of the river, had handed over the leadership gauntlet to Harper with a clear sense of relief. Strategically-minded, he could plan a mission or battle right down to the finest detail with such skill and precision that it often left me in awe, but Fenton had always hated having to deal with the more 'human' side of the family business and had never enjoyed being in charge. He'd endured it because he had to, but when Harper had taken up the role Benjamin had always intended for him, Fenton had gladly assumed his place by Harper's side. It would have been perfect, if it wasn't for the fact that Harper's mood could send everyone scuttling back into the shadows and then, inevitably, they would seek out Fenton again.

I would have loved to have taken some of the load – hell, I had even tried – but old suspicions were taking a long time to fade, and besides, most here had been present at the Final War, and I knew the memory of my angel wings and the celestial fire raging from my hands had many still giving me a wide berth. It's not that the vampires didn't know my power had gifted them a victory, but it was a power they didn't understand, an ancient power steeped in mystery and fear and I knew I had to tread carefully around them all, and, more importantly, keep the truth hidden that I was still in possession of that power.

For now, I had to keep that secret from everyone. Even Harper.

'You do realise I'm going to have to go find him now?'

Fenton shrugged, the smirk rising again. 'Well, if anyone can work their magic on that miserable old bastard, it's you. I have every faith, you know that.'

I looked hesitantly at the still-swinging door.

'Faith,' I mumbled, gritting my teeth. 'You're bloody hilarious, Fenton.'

*

Approaching the door to our room – the old Headmaster's office – I expected to hear the tornado in full-force, instead as I hesitated outside, I could hear nothing from within and, for a moment I wondered if I'd made a mistake in assuming Harper had sought sanctuary here. He had two go-to destinations whenever he was in a foul mood; our room and the dark, back-streets of London, where he could open a vein or two and feed his anger and his hunger at the same time. Hunting him through the city streets didn't hold much appeal right then, so I was almost relieved to open the door and find him inside.

Almost.

He stood with his back to me, hands braced against a shelf of the bookcase in the corner next to our bed, his head bowed. I knew this stance. I could sense the palpable tension in every inch of tightened muscle, and I watched warily as he fought to control every breath. The small room was drenched in an uneasy silence. The gentle click of the door as I shut it made me flinch, as if that one tiny noise would fracture the brittle air, shattering everything into sharp fragments.

I waited there, my back against the door.

When he said nothing and refused to acknowledge my presence, I walked over to the large mahogany desk that had once belonged to the headmaster, and which, I think Harper kept because it secretly reminded him of the desk Benjamin had kept in the asylum study. I perched against the edge, suspecting it would do me no good to approach him until he looked less likely to implode.

I barely had time to utter his name before he turned abruptly and strode the short distance towards me. My eyes widened as I shifted back on the desk, not because Harper's sudden advance scared me, but because I knew that look on his face. I'd seen it enough times now to recognise it for what it was. Old Megan would have been fearful of it. The Megan he had first known would have shrank from the look in his eyes, from his predatory fire and the need to claim every inch of her. She would have weakened under his touch, cowed to his dominance, submitted to his obvious command.

But not me.

This was the Harper that I loved the most. The one I desired more than any other.

He was power and force and heat and I felt the inferno hit me even before he did, pushing himself between my thighs and gripping the back of my neck with one hand, the other grasping my leg. Crushing his lips hard against mine, our tongues entwined and I moaned at the taste of his mouth. Even after all this time, his mouth was still my undoing. Words seduced me endlessly, sometimes reminding me of that man who had seduced me so easily with his charm in the coffee shop, other times, his talk rougher, dirtier, revealing the demon he really was underneath. And when he wasn't enthralling me with his words, his mouth enticed me with a skill and a hunger that was addictive. It seemed I would never have enough of this, of him.

Demon. Vampire. Lover. Mine.

He kissed me deeper, harder, grabbing a handful of my hair and growling as he pulled my head back, exposing my throat. When the bite came, it was sharp enough to make me suck in a breath and cry out with the sweet pain as his incisors pierced my skin. There was no tenderness here, just a desperate thirst and a bristling anger that often came with his dark moods and I dug my fingers into his shoulder-blades, hearing and feeling him hiss against my neck as he drank. My blood flowed steadily from the small puncture wounds into his mouth and with it came that heady, woozy feeling, a warmth that radiated through my skull and under my skin, making me feel a little drunk from the sensation.

My breath quickened as his hand slipped between my legs, pressing down with his fingers and rubbing before moving up fast to unbutton my jeans. The absence of his hand was short-lived, as I knew it would be. Tugging my jeans down over my hips, he deftly pulled them free of my legs and slipped his hand inside my underwear, making me gasp as his mouth found my throat again. With his fingers moving between my thighs and his mouth sucking on the soft, tender flesh of my throat, the sudden rush of heat enveloped my body, slipping easily over my skin. We'd fucked countless times since we'd first met, and yet I had never once stopped feeling that same exhilaration I had felt the very first time. He was mine now and I was his, and yet there was always a sense of something almost illicit in nature, as if we were still playing out the thrill of an affair that had never ended. Being with him like this always felt good and beautiful and dangerous and mad all at once.

My hips moved instinctively with the rhythm of his hand, as he moaned against my throat. I knew how my blood intoxicated him, could feel how much it intoxicated him as he pushed himself against me. I wanted him so desperately then, needed him, but I knew him well enough to know this would be on his terms. There was too much fire and frustration inside him, too much bristling tension in the way his muscles stiffened under my hands, too much hunger in the way he drank from me. His fingers expertly teased, his touch firm and insistent and I couldn't hold back any longer – didn't fucking want to – and as the orgasm hit, an intense wave of pleasure rocking me back onto the desk, unable to hold myself up as the heat cascaded over me. He held his hand there as the intense throbbing subsided, his mouth finding mine, kissing me deeply, the taste of my blood lingering on his lips and tongue.

'Please,' I whimpered against his mouth when he finally drew back. 'Please.'

Fire and triumph stormed in his eyes as he pulled away, grasping my wrists and pulling me up with him. 'No,' he said, pressing my hand over his crotch, his other hand entangling in my hair. 'Get on your knees. I want you on your knees, angel.'

I slid off the edge of the desk and down onto my knees in front of him, my hands trembling a little as I fumbled with the button and zipper on his jeans. This wasn't weak compliancy. This was desire and a longing that had my whole body shaking. He huffed impatiently, finishing the task I was struggling to do and yanking his jeans and boxers down over his hips. I had barely caught my breath when he was already guiding my head to where he wanted it and I took the base of his cöck in my hand, kissing the tip gently. He growled from the back of his throat and pushed his hips forward, urging me to open my mouth, which I did willingly.

Glancing up as I took his length into my hungry mouth, I saw he was watching me, his own mouth open, almost in awe and god, how I fucking loved it when he looked at me like that. I never could resist looking, and he knew it too, sometimes begging me not to stop looking at him as my mouth worked him over, sometimes forcing me look at him because it turned him on even more to be in control. This time, he held my gaze for a moment before throwing his head back, his breathing becoming harder and rougher with each stroke of my tongue. I pulled back slightly to brush my lips over the tip, before sliding my mouth all the way down to the base and back up again, losing myself in thoughts of him thrusting inside me in the same way. Frustrated and aching for him, I reached down between my legs with my free hand, pushing the fabric of my knickers aside and rubbing my fingertips over myself in a circular motion. It was a poor second to his touch, but I needed something then, something that would satiate my unending desire until he fed my hunger and fucked me. Spurred on by what I knew would be inevitable, I increased the speed of both my mouth on him and my hand between my legs, wondering how much longer he would make me wait as I moaned against his hot, hard length.

'Fucking hell.' He tutted, forcing me to look up. He was watching me, his head angled so he could see me touching myself. 'Always so damned impatient.'

He wasn't annoyed at what I was doing – I knew him too well to know how much he loved it – but he hauled me to my feet regardless, the pretense helping to serve the tension that was wracking his body. Often, when our time together was like this – hard and rough and spontaneous – there was a glint of amusement in his eyes, some spark that told me he was getting off on my obvious enjoyment, but as I raised my fingers to his lips and pushed them inside his mouth, all I saw was danger and darkness and a glimpse of the Harper who had first turned me. I hadn't seen this Harper in a long time, the one who didn't give a fuck about anyone, the one who was always on the cusp of exploding violently, the storm, the chaos, the monster. I briefly wondered where he had gone, the Harper I had come to know and what had happened to bring him back here, to this, to him.

In one swift, deft motion, he spun me to face the other way, one hand wrapped around my waist, the other tugging the fabric of my t-shirt up above my breasts. Thumbing my nipple through the lace of my bra, he licked at the wound on my neck, incisors grazing the tender flesh, the threat of another bite always ever-present. Nudging the backs of my legs with his knees, he pushed me forward until my thighs met the edge of the desk and he pressed a hand against my back, forcing me face down. Tugging my knickers down over my hips, he pushed at my feet with his own, spreading my legs apart and for a moment, he just left me there, waiting, and I knew he was looking at me. I felt raw and exposed and vulnerable and just so fucking turned on, that I clutched at the desk, grinding myself against it and wishing I could reach down again and touch myself. I knew his eyes were exploring everywhere I wanted his hands to go, everywhere I wanted his cöck to go.

I heard the whisper of fabric and watched as his t-shirt landed on the desk next to me with a soft thump.

I couldn't resist glancing back.

He stood, just slightly back from me, a light sheen of perspiration glistening on his chest and on the taut muscles of his stomach, where the black dragon tattoo – the one I had once been scared to touch - curled around his hip. His hand was wrapped around his shaft, his eyes hooded, glinting darkly as his gaze met mine.

'Beg me,' he said, his voice deep and guttural. 'Fucking beg me now, angel.'

It felt like a taunt, mocking what he had known me to be now that I was here, bent mostly naked over the desk. What kind of angel could I possibly be when I was like this, at the mercy of a demon?

I whimpered regardless, unable to stop the soft moan from escaping my lips.

'Please, Harper,' I begged, wishing he would just hurry the fuck up and do it already. 'Please will you?'

'Will I what? Say it.'

My leg muscles quivered as I strained against the desk. I was burning up. The intensity of waiting and wanting was burning me up from the inside out.

'Will you fuck me?' I said, my voice trembling, not with fear, but with an all-consuming need that was raging through me. 'Please will you fuck me?'

Without another word, he stepped forward and I felt his thick hardness resting against my thigh – briefly, agonisingly – and then, he guided himself into me, the delicious heat of him entering, all the way until I felt his body pressed against mine, his hands now tightly grasping my hips. He exhaled a moan – couldn't stop himself – and I revelled in the sound of it, knowing that while he might be in control, he was as desperate for this as I was. I pushed back with my hips, not that he could possibly go any further, but just enjoying the sensation of feeling him inside me, with no movement or friction, just having him there, with the sweet anticipation of what was to come next. He pulled back slightly, just enough for me to groan with want and he ran his hand over the smooth firm flesh of my backside, deceptively gentle at first. When the slap came – sharp and quick and oh so fucking good – I cried out and strained against him again, urging him deeper once more, and, as if he couldn't stand it any longer himself, he grabbed me again, his fingers digging into my flesh as he thrust hard.

I was frantic for him now, frantic for his hardness inside me, frantic for the way he thrust deep, frantic for the roughness of his hands and for the way his teeth nipped at my back. My appetite for him never wavered, never diminished, it just seemed to grow and grow, becoming something monstrous, something so wild and untameable that I knew that I wouldn't be able to hold on. I squirmed beneath him until he had to hold me still, and I was gripping the edge of the desk so tightly as he rocked against me, each forceful thrust making me gasp for breath.

Grasping hold of me, he pulled my hips backwards slightly so that there was some space between my lower body and the desk, and, still keeping up the delicious movements of his own hips, he reached round between my thighs, his fingers exploring, rubbing.

'Fuck,' I cried, splaying my palms flat out as the orgasm hit hard. 'Oh fuck.'

Pulses of pleasure thundered through me and I heard his sharp inhale as I came, but I had no time to catch my own breath before he was holding my bucking hips in place and thrusting into me with more insistence, deep, hard strokes that just drove the heat up and intensified the throbbing between my legs.

He was moaning now, small, raw sounds that deviated between a groan and a growl and, pushing me back against the desk with his body pressed against me, he held my hips with one hand, the other grasping my shoulder so that he could thrust even harder. The weight of him against me and the hard thrusts inside almost knocked the breath from my body, but I pushed back against him, knowing how much it drove him mad with lust to feel my resistance. Then, with a cry tinged with so much frustration and desire, he gripped me tighter and pushed firmly against me, the power of his body just pinning me there as he came, the full force of his throbbing raging through me, his orgasm as wild and untameable as my own had been.

When it was finally over, he pulled me to my feet, wrapping his arms around my chest and holding me against him, our bodies damp with perspiration, our breathing almost in time with each other. When he pulled me around to face him, the warmth I thought I would see in his eyes wasn't there. There was still darkness. Still danger.

Taking hold of my chin firmly between his thumb and index finger, his face drew close to mine. There was a smear of my blood at the corner of his lips that made me think too much about his mouth on my throat. As if he could read my mind, he licked at with his tongue and smiled.

'Don't bother getting dressed,' he said, a hard inflection in his tone that swelled heat in the base of my stomach and between my thighs. 'I haven't finished with you yet.'

*

Rolling onto my stomach, I reached out to the bookcase behind the bed and ran my fingers down the spine of my favourite copy of A Tale of Two Cities, a worn and battered tome that was in danger of losing its cover and which I usually only touched to hold it to my face and inhale the musty scent of the old pages. I was petrified that the whole thing would fall apart if I opened it and the idea of that seemed too much to bear.

Harper watched me as I traced my fingertip over the faded gold font.

'He would have handled all this so much better than me,' he said, his voice gruff and low. 'People loved him. They would have loved him.'

I gave a half-smile. The sadness of losing Garrick was a deep bind on my heart that would always be there, but Harper's deference to his blood-brother and this assertion that Garrick had always been more deserving of the crown Harper now wore, made me sadder still. I hated that he didn't think he was good enough. Hated that he couldn't see himself the way I did.

'Yes, they would have,' I said, softly. 'But he made it easy to love him.'

'And I don't.'

I turned to look at him, noting the dark clouds troubling his eyes and the way his jaw clenched, and my heart hurt for him.

'You don't make it easy, no,' I replied. 'But they love you anyway. And, what's more, they trust you implicitly. Lucius and Amy love and trust you, Harper. And I know that might scare the shit out of you, even if you don't want to admit it - because fuck if Harper Cain likes to admit when he's scared shitless - but I know. I know there's a big part of you that hates all of this. You hate the responsibility. You hate having everyone rely on you. You hate the fact that Benjamin was right about you all along. You hate the fact that Michael was right about you. You wish you could tell everyone to go fuck themselves and then go rogue again, because you don't have to be scared when you go rogue. You don't have to worry about anyone but yourself.'

I trailed my finger along his collarbone.

'For the record,' I said. 'I don't think Garrick would have handled all this better than you. I don't think anyone could handle it better than you.'

His frown deepened, harsh lines cutting across his brow. 'You expect too much. They all expect too much. Especially Lucius and Amy. I can't be what they want me to be.'

'And what's that exactly?'

'You heard what Fenton said.'

I stared at him, wide-eyed. 'Honestly, is that what's bothering you?'

'I'm sick of the jokes and the fucking snide comments. And it's not just him. Others have said it too.' He looked at me then, a stubborn challenge in his eyes. 'I'm not their dad, I'm not some sort of father-figure and I don't want to be. Never have and never will.'

I whistled out an exhale through my teeth. 'Okaaaaaaay.'

'What?' he said, sharply.

'Look,' I said, wondering if this was about to start World War Three but knowing I needed to say it anyway. 'Lucius and Amy don't think of you as their father. To them, you're Harper Cain, Guardian of the Lost, Leader of our Army, the man they trust above all others. Just because they're... well, the kids around here...' I trailed off, because they weren't kids. Not really. They just looked like kids, acted like kids, destined to be what they were forever. 'They don't think of you like that, so you really don't need to be walking around like you're about to flip out and kill everyone just because of a few jokes.'

I stared at him, narrowing my eyes as he looked up at the ceiling, and something in his expression told me he was seeing something else there other than cracked plaster and peeling paint, something else that was rolling over and over in his head.

'This isn't what's really bothering you, is it?'

He didn't look my way, but he bit down onto his lower lip, chewing gently and I knew I was right.

'I lied to you,' he said, finally.

I paused, studying his profile in the candlelight. His face was a mixture of light and shadow, and as always, it was the shadow that drew me in, that insatiable curiosity of mine that made me want to know his darkness.

'About what?'

'About my mother. My father. Stuff that happened back then.'

I thought back to the conversation we'd had about his parents on the drive from our base in the Millennium Mills to Greenwich. It seemed so long ago now.

'Such as?'

'When I went back to see my father after Frank Wallace and the gang were wiped out by the Italians.' He swallowed visibly, moistening his top lip with the tip of his tongue before trailing it along the edge of his teeth. 'I had already been born into the blood.'

I raised myself onto one elbow. 'Wait, but you said that you left Boston after you saw your father and it was then that you met Benjamin and became a vampire. This means you had already met Benjamin and been turned before you left town? Why would you lie about that?'

I didn't understand any of this. He told me so much that night. So much I never knew about him. It had felt like a wall crumbling between us, finally allowing me into his life after so long. Why would he have lied to me? It didn't make sense.

He rubbed a hand over his brow, massaging at his temples as if a headache simmered there in his skull.

'Because the truth seemed one step too far,' he replied. 'And because the only other person who knew had been Benjamin and when he died, it was just easier to let the truth die with him.'

'So, when you went to visit your Dad that final time, did he know what had happened to you?'

'Yes,' he whispered back. 'I confessed. I got down on my knees and confessed what I'd become.'

I remembered that part of the conversation. How he had gone back to see Abraham and how he had confessed to everything he had done as part of Frank's gang. Every crime. Every murder. Everything.

Now it seemed that everything had included him being a vampire.

'And what did he say?'

'What do you think he said, Megan?' He laughed coldly. 'Do you think he forgave me? Do you think he laid his godly hands upon my head and told me that my sins were forgiven?'

I frowned. 'You said he did. You said he kissed your forehead and then he cried.'

'Oh, he did kiss my forehead.' Harper's face twisted cruelly. 'Although I think that one kiss took almost everything he had left and maybe for that I should have been grateful. He kissed my forehead and then he told me he never wanted to see me again. He said that what I had become was against God and against everything he stood for. Funny how the pious Abraham Cain could stomach the murders and the violence when I was a Southie, but he couldn't stomach the idea of his son being a vampire. I wasn't an abhorrence when I was a gangster and I can't even begin to tell you all the fucking heinous shit I did then, but becoming a vampire?'

He shook his head, almost as if the whole thing was still unbelievable to him, even after so many years.

'Becoming a vampire was the one thing he couldn't forgive me for. He didn't cry when I walked away, but I did. I did.'

I wanted to speak but couldn't. Couldn't find the words. Couldn't stop the pain spreading across my chest, remembering when I had seen Harper cry, when I had heard the pain in his voice as he had begged Michael to spare my life so that he wouldn't have to be alone forever. The thought of him crying as he walked away from the father who he adored, the father who wouldn't forgive him, made me want to cry myself and so I clenched my fist tight, digging my nails into my palm and silently instructing myself over and over to hold it in. He'd hate my tears now. I knew that.

He grabbed for his underwear and jeans and pulled them both on, leaving the jeans unbuttoned as he stood up and wandered over to the window in the corner of the room. Thick pieces of cardboard were taped over the glass, but he had a habit of unsticking one from the wall and peeling back the barrier to look up into the night. He did that now, pushing it back wide to reveal an expanse of lightening sky that made me suck in a breath. Dawn was coming, soft mauve pressing down on indigo, and even though I knew we were safe from the advancing sunrise in here, Harper's game of Russian Roulette with the daylight always made me uneasy.

Sitting up, I drew my knees into my chest and wrapped my arms around them.

'Did I ever tell you that Martha tried to blackmail me?' He shook his head to answer his own question. 'No. I guess I didn't, because then I would have had to tell you everything else.'

Everything else? Where the fuck was he going with this?

'Why did she try to blackmail you?'

'Because that's who she was, Megan,' he said, his tone curt, his head turning sharply in my direction before sighing and looking away again. 'That's who Martha Cain was, and much more besides.' Leaning against the wall, he traced a finger through the condensation that clouded the bottom of the windowpane. 'She came to me a few days before the heist that was to be the end of Frank Wallace's gang, demanding money because that's who she was too. Someone who just fucking demanded, you know? She demanded everything – your attention, your devotion, your fucking soul. Anything she wanted, she just took it. No matter what it cost you.'

'And what did it cost you?' I asked.

'Everything,' he whispered. 'Everything. Far more than the money she wanted. Far more than I expected to give.' He smiled then, not at me, but at whatever memory lingered there as he looked out through the glass. 'There was this girl, you see. Lucille, her name was. Beautiful. Italian.' The smile grew wider, twisting into a smirk at the corners. 'Because that was me. I had to push it to the limits, you know? I had to step over that damn line every chance I got and what better way to create chaos than fuck a girl you have no business fucking?'

'Nothing's changed there then, I see,' I said, raising a brow.

He glanced at me, a hint of warmth briefly creeping into the edges of the cold hardness that had taken over his face.

'I fucked Lucille every chance I got,' he said. 'Couldn't get enough. I mean, she was a real catch. Smart, sassy, knew how to handle a man better than any woman I knew, knew how to handle me even, and that was no mean feat. But she was Italian which meant she was off-limits to me, not that I particularly gave a fuck.' He scraped his teeth over his lower lip. 'At least, I didn't until she told me she was pregnant.'

My back stiffened. My breath caught in my throat as I dug my fingers into my knees.

'Pregnant?' I whispered, feeling that familiar ache of jealousy roil in my stomach.

He nodded. 'I gave a fuck then, of course. Unfortunately for me, so did Martha.' He wiped the condensation from his finger onto his jeans. 'She caught Lucille coming out from my place, crying her heart out because I'd told her to get rid. Told her I didn't want anything to do with it. And Martha being Martha, managed to get the whole story out of her. All about what we'd been doing. All about how her family would kill me if they found out. Lucille wanted us to run away, get married and live happily-ever-fucking-after.'

'And you didn't want that.'

A sad realisation seeped into my bones then, finally connecting the dots to why he was so riled at all the Dad jokes. It wasn't lost on me either, that I had spent my married human life so desperately wanting a child Brandon could never give me, and Harper had spent his adult human life not wanting the one thing I had yearned for more than anything.

'I don't know,' he said, softly and I looked up at him, surprised. 'No. Yeah. Maybe. I don't fucking know, Megan. Sometimes, back then, when I let myself think about what my life could be, I would think about Lucille and me and the kid, living some life as a family – nothing perfect, you know – just a life. A normal life like everyone else. And then I would realise I was just fucking kidding myself. That life was never meant for someone like me. Martha knew it too.'

'Someone like you? What does that even mean, Harper?'

He tilted his head as he looked at me, eyes wide. 'Come on, Megan! You know me better than anyone knows me. I'm not exactly the two-point-four children type, am I? I'm the type who cheats on his wife and lets her wander off to her death. I'm the type that betrays his own kind to do the dirty work of the enemy. I'm the type who'll fuck you and kill you and condemn you to the worst kind of existence, just so he can get revenge on the man he hates more than anyone in the world. Does that sound like the type of guy who deserves to live happily ever after with a wife and child?'

Gathering the blanket around me, I walked around the desk and sat on the edge, sensing his pain and wanting to be closer to him.

'You're right,' I said, my gaze flickering over his face, that face I loved more than any other. 'I do know you better than anyone. You're the man who never left me. You're the man who risked his own life to save mine. You're the man who believed in me, even when I couldn't believe in myself. You're the man who opposed an Archangel.'

Harper stared hard at me for a moment, his expression full of a doubt that seemed to weigh so heavily upon him. His shoulders drooped, a gesture of defeat that seemed so unlike him, and he shook his head and turned back to look out the window, almost as if he needed to avoid my gaze, as if looking into my eyes was just too bloody hard.

'Harper,' I said, softly. 'Please. What is it? What's wrong?'

'You are,' he said, bitterly. 'You're wrong. I'm not that man. I'm not.' He spat out those last two words as if poison laced his tongue.

'Then who are you? Who are you, Harper Cain, if you're not that man I believe you to be?'

When he turned back to look at me, he wore a demon's smile – a monster's smile – and I felt an icy shard stab deep into my chest, coldness spreading over my body in a sea of goosebumps.

'I'm the man who killed Martha Cain,' he said. 'I'm the man who killed his own mother.'