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"Christopher's death has been ruled self-defense," I tell her. "No charges. No investigation."

Relief flickers across her face, followed quickly by something more complex. "Good," she says simply.

"Your parents have filed a missing persons report," I continue, watching her reaction carefully. "They're looking for you."

Her expression hardens, fingers tightening around her glass. "They're not my parents anymore," she says, the words flat and final. "Not after what they did."

I nod, accepting her decision without comment. "I've asked Sebastian to arrange a visit from Genevieve and your friend Avery. If you want to see them."

Surprise replaces the hardness in her expression. "You did?"

"You need more than just me," I say, the words coming easier than I expected. "People who care about you. People who understand parts of you that I don't."

She sets down her glass, moving closer until she's standing directly in front of me. "Thank you," she says quietly, looking up at me with an intensity that makes my chest tighten. "For understanding what I need."

Without thinking, I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She doesn't flinch at the contact—another sign of progress, of healing. "I'm trying," I admit.

Her hand comes up to cover mine, keeping it against her cheek. "I know," she says simply.

We stand like that for a long moment, connected by that single point of contact, as the sun continues to rise beyond the windows. Not possessor and possessed. Not hunter and prey. Not even protector and protected.

Just us. Just Luna and Beckett, finding our way toward something neither of us expected.

"I'm going to paint," she says finally, stepping back but keeping her eyes on mine. "Join me? When you're done with your calls?"

The invitation surprises me. She's never asked me into the studio before, has kept that space sacrosanct, private.

"If you want me there," I reply carefully.

A small smile touches her lips—one of those rare, genuine ones that make something in me lighten. "I do," she says, before turning and heading toward the studio.

I watch her go, the realization from earlier settling deeper, becoming more certain with each passing moment. This isn't possession. This is something far more dangerous, far more vulnerable.

This is love.

The knowledge should terrify me. Instead, it feels like coming home to a place I didn't know existed until now.

I pick up my phone again, sending a quick text to Sebastian: Make the arrangements for the visitors. And tell Preston I accept his offer, with my conditions.

Then I set the phone aside and follow Luna into the studio, ready to see whatever new creation is emerging from her healing.

Ready to be whatever she needs me to be.

Fifty-Five

LUNA

The gallery glowsin the evening light, each wall illuminated to showcase the art hanging in perfect alignment. My art. My truth. My journey from darkness into something resembling light.

"Breathe," Avery murmurs beside me, squeezing my hand gently. "You've got this."

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the flutter of nerves in my stomach. It's been six weeks since the incident with Christopher. Six weeks of healing, of painting, of rebuilding myself piece by jagged piece. And now—the gallery reopening. My official debut as an artist in my own right.

"They love it," Genevieve says, appearing at my other side with two glasses of champagne. She hands one to me, keeping the other for herself. "The critics are practically salivating. And three pieces already have offers."

I glance around the room, now filled with art lovers, critics, collectors, and curious observers drawn by the buzzsurrounding the exhibition. My gaze finds Beckett across the room, deep in conversation with a museum curator. He looks perfectly at ease in his tailored black suit, commanding respect without effort.

As if sensing my attention, he looks up, our eyes meeting across the crowded space. Something passes between us—an acknowledgment, a reassurance. He doesn't move toward me, doesn't try to take over or insert himself. He simply nods once, the gesture small but weighted with meaning.