Pride lives in a poky one-bedroom flat in Poplar. It’s not exactly fit for a king, but it would be rude to say so.

“Do you want a hot drink before bed?”

Ordinarily, you’d say yes. “I’m not sure I’ll still be awake by the time it’s cool enough to drink, so… just water for me.”

Pride crosses the open-plan living area to the small kitchen at the end of the room, and you stare out the window at the lights of East London’s tower blocks. You hear the hissing tap and Pride’s footsteps as he approaches.

You thank him when he hands over the glass, guzzling half the water in one go. When you put the glass down on a side table, the window flickers in your peripheral vision, parts of it glowing green and gold.

“It’s the wards,” Pride says, without you even having to ask. “Kane set them up. Nothing can get in here, so you’re perfectly safe, I promise.”

A knot of tension you weren’t even aware of loosens in your shoulders. You sway on your feet.

“Bedtime for you,” he says. “You can take my room. It’s just through there, and the door next to it is the bathroom.”

You glance at the bedroom door, then back at Pride. “Where will you sleep?”

“Sofa,” he says, nodding at the dark brown sofa taking up most of the living area.

Though it looks comfy, you’re sure it’s not big enough to accommodate Pride. He’s a broad man, and easily six-foot-three… maybe taller.

“It’s not big enough,” you say. “I don’t mind sleeping out here.”

He shakes his head. “You slept on a tiny settee last night. Go on. I’ve slept in far worse places than this.”

You hesitate. “If you’re sure?”

“I am,” he says. “Thank you for keeping my bag safe.”

You swallow hard. “Thank you for keeping me safe.”

He nods, and you turn towards the bathroom, though something pulls you back. “Why did you trust me with your bag? If it's so important that demons are willing to cross into other dimensions to get their claws into it, why trust me? You don't know me.”

“Don't I?” At your frown, Pride goes on. “Look, I don't know. I just knew that I could trust you... that you don't make promises lightly. I wasn't wrong, was I?”

You shake your head. “No. No, you weren't wrong.”

“Get some sleep.”

You slip into the bathroom, availing yourself of a spare toothbrush, and quickly getting yourself ready for bed. Kane’s magic has rustled up some new pyjamas for you, all silky and purple and actually nice. Pride doesn’t move from his position on the sofa when you leave the bathroom. He just sits there staring into his glass. You can smell the brandy from across the room.

“Night,” you say.

“Goodnight.”

You figure he’s sad about seeing his mother full of scrappy holes, dragged from another plane of existence to offer her dire warning. Until tonight, Pride had seemed young and full of enthusiasm. Now you can see his age seeping through, along with all the experience he’s trying to drown out with brandy. You don’t know what to say, so you leave him there, silent and brooding.

You let yourself into the bedroom, switching on the bedside lamp so you can find your way beneath the ridiculous number of covers Pride has on his bed. You snuggle under, inhaling Pride’s scent, which is both comforting and soporific. You snigger into the pillow when you remember him telling you he always smells damn sexy, then roll onto your side to switch off the light. For a moment, in the dim glow of the lamp, you spot a drawing—a portrait of a person who looks sort of… maybe a lot like you—but your finger’s already on the switch, your mind shutting down for the night as the haze of sleep takes you.

When you wake in the morning, refreshed from the best sleep you’ve had in a long time, the portrait is gone. Maybe you imagined it. Pride is whistling in the kitchen. You grin as you stretch beneath the covers, the scent of a cooked breakfast reaching you through the closed door. If you weren’t so hungry, there’s no way you would get up right now. The bed is the comfiest you’ve ever slept in.

Pride smiles at your outfit when you emerge from the bedroom. “Just in time for breakfast,” he says, gesturing to the small round table by the window.

You’re back in the jumpsuit, and you don’t even mind. It works equally well for getting dirty and being thrown out of a plane, and, frankly, with Pride beside you, anything could happen. “What’s on the agenda today?”

His smile is overly bright. “Got a call from a friend of mine. They’re in need of… muscle.”

You glance down at your arms. Nothing to be ashamed of, for sure, but you’re not quite on Pride’s level. “Where is this friend?”

“She works at Cascade,” he says, avoiding the actual where of the question.

“I thought you were running from Cascade.”

“Well, not exactly,” he begins. “Most of them are fine… the celestial council, I mean. It’s Raguel who likes to kick up a stink about everything, and since he’s the boss…” He leaves the thought hanging to say, “You’re about to meet your favourite cousin’s granddaughter, actually.”

You laugh around the fork of beans you’re shovelling into your mouth. Once you’ve swallowed, you ask, “Uriel has a granddaughter?”

“Several,” he says. “He is even more blessed in the grandson department.”

“It’s weird. So, is he married, then?”

“Not that I'm aware of.” He arches an eyebrow and eyes you over his coffee. “Done with all the questions?”

“Yes. If you answer the one about where we’re going… geographically.”

“Bermondsey,” he says. “South of the river. It’s the only way for outsiders to get in.”

“So, what does she do, then?” you ask once you’re both ready to go. “This granddaughter of Uriel’s?”

“She’s a forensic pathologist,” Pride says, waving the portal frisbee at you. “She must need help with a body.”

You’re already jumping before you realise what he means. “A dead bo—”