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"Don't hide anything from me again." My voice doesn't rise or break—it cuts, clean and cold like a blade through silk. "I won't ask you a third time."

I turn away, crossing the room with measured steps.

"Silence won't save you from me, Luna," I add quietly. "Nothing will."

Then I walk away. No slammed doors. No fury in my stride. Just the sound of power shifting back into place and the unspoken promise that hangs in the air between us.

The next time she cowers in another man's presence like that, someone's going to bleed for it.

Twenty-Nine

LUNA

The door doesn't slamwhen he leaves. It clicks—quiet and precise, just like him. And somehow, that's worse than any display of fury.

Heat would have given me something to push against. A raised voice, a threat, a punishment, anything tangible I could brace against.

But this silence? This calm, measured departure? It leaves me cold, untethered in a space suddenly too large, too empty.

I remain frozen where I stand, back pressed against the wall, fingers curled into half-fists at my sides. Though Beckett has left, his words linger in the air like smoke that refuses to dissipate.

Don't hide anything from me again.

Silence won't save you from me.

The truth of it settles into my bones. He was right—silence didn't protect me. It never has.

When I saw Christopher, something inside me fractured. I thought I was protecting this fragile sanctuary I'd found with Beckett by keeping that name buried, by not dragging the weight of my past into this space that had started to feel like mine. I thought silence was mercy—for me, for Beckett, for whatever this is between us.

But he saw through it anyway. He recognized the panic that seized my lungs, the way my body went rigid when Christopher smiled across the room—that same smile, unchanged and unapologetic, like he had never lost sight of me. Like I had always belonged to him.

I slide down the wall, my legs giving way beneath me as memories surge forward, no longer content to remain buried. Each one rises with claws that tear at the careful walls I've built.

Christopher's voice low in my ear. The press of his body against mine when no one was looking. His breath warm on my neck, whispering that I was made for him. My parents' cold advice—that it would be easier if I just stopped fighting.

The first time his hands found me, I was too stunned to scream. The second time, when I tried to fight, he smiled at my resistance like it was merely foreplay, a game he expected to win. He was always smiling. When I tried to escape him in crowded rooms. When I pushed his hands away. When he told me with absolute certainty that one day I would say yes, because no one else would ever want me the way he did.

I remember everything I've tried to forget—the cloying scent of him, the burning imprint of his hands on my waist, the proprietary gleam in his eyes as he looked at me like I was already his before I even understood what it meant to say no.

And tonight, there it was again. That same smile, untouched by time or shame.

The lace of my dress clings to my skin, suddenly heavy with regret. I feel soiled, not by Beckett's touch, but by the realization that my past never stopped hunting me. I thought I had escaped. I believed I had finally carved out something that could be mine somewhere that Christopher couldn't reach.

Now Beckett has seen it all—the flinch, the fear, the fracture in my carefully constructed persona. And I don't know which terrifies me more. That he'll look at me differently now, like something damaged and tainted, or that perhaps he already does.

The apartment is unnervingly still in his absence.

Too pristine, too silent, the air sharp with abandonment. Everything carries Beckett's imprint—his cologne lingering in the fabric of the couch, the faint scent of whiskey from his glass, the leather and heat of his presence soaked into every surface. I want to wrap myself in these remnants, to hide in them until the memory of tonight fades, until I can no longer see Christopher's smile lurking in the shadows of my mind.

But no amount of hiding will erase what's now been exposed.

Slowly, I make my way to the bedroom, not bothering with lights. I peel off the dress that no longer feels like mine and change into the simple comfort of cotton—Beckett's plain shirt, clean underwear. I know I'm not supposed to wear anything to bed, but Beckett's not here to stop me. And my skin still burns with memories too vivid to ignore, my throat constricted with words I've held captive for too long.

I stand at the edge of the bed, watching my hands tremble in the dim light filtering through the curtains. There's a step I need to take, a threshold I need to cross. If I'm ever going to move forward, I have to stop pretending the past didn't happen.

I sink onto the mattress, pull the blanket across my legs, and close my eyes.

His name pushes against my teeth like a bruise I can't stop biting.