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He shakes his head once, a barely perceptible movement. "No one's ever wanted to."

The admission breaks something open in my chest. I continue washing him, paying special attention to the tension in his neck and shoulders, working the soap into a lather against his skin.

When we're both clean, he shuts off the water and reaches for towels—large, plush ones that feel like clouds against mydamp skin. He dries me first, then himself, and without a word, leads me to the bedroom.

It's exactly what I would have expected from Beckett Sinclair—minimalist, elegant, dominated by a massive bed with charcoal sheets and a black headboard. The windows here are floor-to-ceiling, offering a view of the forest stretching out beneath the night sky.

He pulls back the covers and gestures for me to get in. I hesitate only briefly before sliding between the sheets, the cool fabric a stark contrast to my still-warm skin.

What surprises me is when he follows, slipping into bed beside me without a word of explanation. Not just for sex. Not just to prove a point. But to sleep. To rest. To simply be with me.

It feels strange. New. But also undeniably right.

I turn to face him, our bodies close but not touching, the space between us charged with everything that's changed between us.

"What were you doing this week?" I ask, breaking the silence. "While I was here alone."

His eyes, so dark in the dim light of the bedroom, study my face for a long moment. "Eliminating threats," he says finally.

"Like...killing people?" I ask, only half-joking.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "No. But I would if it meant keeping you safe."

"Why is that strangely attractive?" I murmur, surprising myself with my honesty.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through the small space between us. "Because you know I mean it."

I shift closer, drawn to his warmth, to the safety his body represents. "Tell me about the threats. What were you protecting me from?"

"The Collectors, for one," he says, his arm coming around me naturally, as if we've lain like this a thousand times before. "They were angry about the Hunt. About you using your sister's invitation."

"I didn't steal it," I correct him, nestling against his chest. "She gave it to me."

"I know," he murmurs against my hair. "But they were still... displeased."

I take a deep breath, knowing it's time for the truth. All of it. "I was trying to escape something. Someone."

"Christopher," he says, and I stiffen slightly.

"You know about him?"

"I know enough," Beckett replies, his voice hardening slightly at the name. "I know what he did to you. What he tried to do."

I pull back enough to see his face, to gauge his expression. "You don't know everything."

His eyes narrow slightly, concern replacing the contentment that was there moments before. "What don't I know, Luna?"

Forty

BECKETT

She takes a deep breath,her eyes fixed on some point beyond me, beyond this room. "It's not just about him. It's about my family. About why I ran."

I remain silent, letting her find the words at her own pace.

"My father..." she begins, voice hollow. "He's always been obsessed with wealth. With status. With appearing to be something more than he is. It consumed him, drove every decision he ever made."

I watch her carefully, cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift in her posture.