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But I don't say it.

I won't give him that power—not here. Not in this space I've tried so hard to make mine.

Still, the memories rise. They always do.

He had me first. Not by love, not by right, but by force. By opportunity. By the simple, cruel confidence that no one would stop him.

And no one did.

Not when my parents decided what was "best for me." Not when they smoothed over what happened with silence and silk and a fake smile. Not when they dressed it up as a proper match, ignoring the way he still looked at me like I was an item he'd been forced to loan out.

He didn't stop touching me. Didn't stop whispering that I was his. That no one else would want me now—not after what he'd taken.

And I believed him.

Because the people who should have protected me... didn't.

The tears come suddenly—violent, gasping sobs that rip from somewhere deep and unspoken. I press both hands to my face, like I can hold the truth in. Like I can shove it back down where it's stayed for years.

But it's too late. Beckett saw it. Felt it.

And I know he's going to want answers.

He'll piece it together. The Infernum. My reaction. The fracture in my control. He'll ask. And I'll have to tell him.

That terrifies me more thananything else.

Because what if he looks at me the way everyone else did once he knows?

What if Christopher was right and once Beckett knows, he'll no longer want me?

Thirty

BECKETT

The apartment is too stillwhen I open my eyes. Morning light spills across the sheets at an angle that immediately feels wrong, the silence humming too loudly around the edges of the bed.

I'd been angry last night, and didn't trust myself not to do something stupid. So instead, I jumped on my motorcycle and rode around for hours before exhaustion settled in my bones and I knew she'd be asleep.

So I climbed into bed like a thief in the night, beside my own little thief and despite my displeasure, had to do everything I could to not pull her against me. Over the last few weeks I'd grown so used to having her fall asleep in my arms, it was unsettling to lie there with her back toward me.

And now, waking up, she's not here. The side where Luna slept is smooth, cold, barely touched.

I sit up and run a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly in an attempt to settle the coil still wound tight in my chest from lastnight. It doesn't work. The image of her face when she spotted him across the gallery persists—that moment of recognition, of fear. And the way he looked at her in return, like some part of her still belonged to him.

I move through the apartment with controlled strides, not pacing but almost, until I reach my office. The door hisses closed behind me as the monitors flicker to life. I drop into my chair, spine straight, and begin scanning the network logs without hesitation.

The timestamp flickers as static clears on the security footage from the club last night. There he is, dressed in black, his posture relaxed, face carefully composed. Then he turns his head, and his eyes find her across the room.

The screen isn't high resolution, but it doesn't need to be. His stare says everything I need to know. He doesn't blink. Doesn't smile. Doesn't move. He simply watches with the patient focus of a predator who's spotted familiar prey.

I lean forward, elbows on the desk. "That wasn't discovery," I mutter to myself. "That was possession."

He wasn't surprised to see Luna there. That calm, controlled reaction wasn't shock—it was acknowledgment. He was making sure I knew he hadn't forgotten her.

And Luna—she froze the moment he turned. Her entire body going rigid, breath stalling in her chest. No words needed when her silence said everything.

I rewind the footage and watch it again. And again. Each viewing revealing more detail—the way his eyes trace the shape of her body, how still she becomes when she realizes he's seen her. The tension in her shoulders. The barely contained panic beneath her skin.