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Her brows draw together, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

I maintain the steady calm that's become my trademark with her. "Because you need it. Because I want it." A pause. "Because I said so."

She laughs then, but there's no real humor in it. "And if I say no?"

I don't answer with words. Instead, I close the distance between us, taking the brush from her hand and setting it down with deliberate care. Then I reach for her waist, my fingers curling around her with gentle but unmistakable possession, drawing her toward me.

Her breath stutters. "Beckett?—"

"Pack light," I murmur against her skin, my lips close enough to her ear that I can feel the shiver that runs through her. "You won't need much where we're going."

I don't let go right away. She remains standing in front of me, her body warm under my hand, her breath catching like she doesn't know what to do with it. Maybe I don't either.

Her eyes search mine—questioning, uncertain, edges sharp with something like anxiety, as if she's bracing for something worse than what I'm about to give her.

Asking me if I'm still upset with her. If I see her any differently... If I still want her.

But I don't move back. I move forward.

My fingers reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lingering just beneath her jaw afterward. The touch issofter than I intended, more uncertain than I'd ever let anyone else see.

Her lips part, and something shifts between us—a gravitational pull neither of us seems prepared for.

I don't plan to kiss her. It's not a decision my brain consciously makes. It just happens—a collision of heat and restraint that snaps like a wire finally giving out after too much tension.

My mouth covers hers, and the world goes still. She doesn't fight it. She melts into it, and for one impossible second, I feel like she's not just letting me have her—she's kissing me back.

It's slow, deeper than it should be, like something that's been waiting in both of us finally surfaced and neither of us knows how to push it back down.

Her hand brushes against my chest, trying to steady herself.

She gasps and I blink, confused. We both look down at the deep blue smear blooming across the front of my shirt.

The silence hangs between us for a heartbeat.

Then she laughs—quiet, breathless, but real. The sound startles me. Not because she's laughing, but because it's beautiful—because it's the first genuine moment of lightness I've seen from her since bringing her home from that estate.

I glance back down at the stain, then at her. "You just ruined my favorite shirt."

"You ruined it first," she says, a grin tugging at her lips. The teasing note in her voice catches me off guard.

I stare at her—this messy, wild, beautiful half-stained woman in front of me who doesn't realize she's still pressed against my chest, who's showing me glimpses of who she is beneath all that trauma and fear.

And I swear to God, if I don't step back now, I won't. So Irelease her carefully, like she's something fragile. Like I'm not the one who might break if I hold on too long.

She watches me as I withdraw, her eyes searching my face like she's trying to figure out what just changed between us.

So am I.

"Two days," I say, backing away before I give in to the urge to pull her close again.

Then I turn and walk out—paint-smeared, pulse wrecked, and wondering what the hell that kiss just did to me.

Thirty-Two

LUNA

The car carriesus silently through the morning air, an intimate bubble of tension suspended between highways and history.