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I consider the question, wanting to give him a true answer. "It makes it real," I say finally. "And if it's real, I can face it."

He nods once, understanding without needing further explanation. That's another change between us—this new ability to communicate in half-finished sentences, in silences, in the space between words.

"The gallery is still yours," he says after a moment. "Whenever you're ready."

I look up, surprised. "After everything that happened?"

"Especially after everything that happened." His voice is firm, unyielding. "Your art deserves to be seen, Luna. Your voice deserves to be heard. When you're ready."

It's not a command. Not an expectation. Just a statement of possibility, an option I can take or leave as I choose.

Freedom. Real freedom, not just the absence of constraint.

That night, I paint him.

Not the powerful, dangerous Beckett who stalks boardrooms and commands empires. Not the predatory Beckett who hunted me through forests. Not even the vengeful Beckett who killed for me in that warehouse.

I paint the Beckett who changes my bandages with gentle hands. Who cooks soup because I need to eat. Who gives me space to heal and time to create and never, not once, asks for anything in return.

The painting isn't finished when exhaustion finallyclaims me. I fall asleep on the studio floor, brush still in hand, colors drying on the palette beside me.

I wake to the sensation of being carried—strong arms beneath my knees and back, my head resting against a solid chest. Beckett. I should be afraid, should panic at being restrained, at being moved without my consent.

But I'm not afraid. I feel safe.

I keep my eyes closed, pretending to sleep as he carries me to the bedroom and lays me gently on the bed. The mattress dips as he pulls the blankets over me, and then he begins to move away.

Without thinking, I reach out, catching his wrist. "Stay," I whisper, the word barely audible.

He goes still, and I can feel the tension radiating from him. "Luna?—"

"Please." I open my eyes, finding his in the darkness. "I don't want to be alone."

For a moment, I think he might refuse, might give me some logical reason why it's a bad idea. Then he nods once and moves to the other side of the bed, lying down on top of the covers, a careful distance between us.

I close my eyes again, listening to the sound of his breathing in the darkness. It's steady, controlled, a counterpoint to the erratic rhythm of my own heartbeat.

Slowly, hesitantly, I shift closer, breaching the gap between us until my head rests against his shoulder. His arm comes around me carefully, giving me every opportunity to pull away if I want to.

I don't.

Instead, I let myself relax against him, feeling the solid warmth of his body beside mine. Not constraining. Not possessing. Just present. Just real.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble I can feel through his chest. "Always."

And for the first time since that night in the warehouse, I believe it. Believe that I'm safe. That the darkness can't reach me here. That whatever comes next, I won't face it alone.

I fall asleep in Beckett's arms, and for once, there are no nightmares waiting.

Fifty-Four

BECKETT

Luna sleeps peacefully beside me,her breathing deep and even, one hand curled against my chest. The bruises on her face have faded to yellowish shadows, and the bandages on her wrists are gone now, revealing the healing skin beneath. Progress. Slow but undeniable.

I've spent every night for the past two weeks like this—lying beside her, barely sleeping, just watching her breathe. Making sure she's safe. Making sure the nightmares don't come.

When they do—and they still do, despite everything—I'm there to wake her gently, to remind her where she is, to ground her in the present until the panic subsides. It's a different kind of possession than what I initially claimed. Not ownership, but protection. Not control, but care.