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Elias
Lucien is a dead man.
I swear to every fucking force in existence, the second we’re out of this, I’m snapping his perfectly sculpted, self-righteous, condescending neck.
Logical. That’s what he said. Like it made sense. Like it was the only viable option. Like he wasn’t personally fucking me over by shoving Luna on a horse with me, forcing me to endure this.
Because this? This is absolute torture.
Every tiny shift of her body, every slight movement, every breath she takes presses against me. The Hollow’s unnatural wind whips around us, her scent, wild, electric, something I can never fucking place, coiling into my lungs, settling there like a curse.
She doesn’t even realize what she’s doing. Doesn’t understand what she is. Doesn’t fucking know that every time she adjusts, every time she grips the reins tighter, I have to concentrate to keep my hands where they belong.
Which, for the record, is not wrapped around her waist. Not gripping her hips, fingers pressing into that maddening strip of bare skin between her top and the waistband of her pants. Not dragging her back against me, feeling every subtle curve, every delicious, torturous press of her body against mine.
Nope. None of that. I am civilized. I am better than this. I want to fucking die.
She shifts again, a quick adjustment to balance herself, and I swear, I swear she’s doing this on purpose.
“Stop wiggling,” I growl, voice rougher than it should be.
She twists her head, glaring at me over her shoulder. “I’m not wiggling.”
“You are wiggling. You’re a fucking menace.”
She scoffs. “I’m trying not to fall off.”
“Uh-huh,” I mutter, jaw tightening as she moves again. “Sounds like something a wiggler would say.”
Her lips press together like she’s physically restraining herself from slamming an elbow into my ribs.
I grin, mostly to distract myself from my impending mental breakdown.
“Besides,” I continue, “if you do fall, I can always slow time and watch it happen in excruciating detail. Could be fun.”
She exhales through her nose, staring ahead, fingers curling around the reins. “I hate you.”
I hum, dipping my head closer, just enough for my breath to brush her ear. “Lies don’t suit you, little star.”
She freezes. And fuck, that was a mistake. Because now I feel everything. The way her breath hitches, the sudden heat of her pulse just beneath her skin. The way her fingers twitch, like she wants to shove me away but knows she can’t.
I have to force myself to sit back, to put space where I don’t fucking want it, to breathe like a normal person instead of some depraved idiot with no self-control.
I hear Lucien’s voice in my head. “Keep her on the damn horse, Elias.”
Oh, I bet he’s enjoying this. Smug bastard.
She points ahead, her arm slicing through the cold, stagnant air of the Hollow, and I shift the reins in response, guiding the wraith horse toward the direction she’s leading us.
Simple. Logical. A basic fucking task. Except nothing is ever fucking simple with Luna Evernight. Because the second the horse leaps over some jagged, gnarled ruin, she reacts, instinctively, naturally, grabbing the nearest thing for stability.
Which just so happens to be me.
Specifically, my thighs. My actual fucking thighs. Both hands. Wrapped firmly around them.
I die instantly.
Brain? Gone. Body? Irrelevant. Dignity? Reduced to dust. My entire fucking existence short-circuits in real time, an immediate, catastrophic system failure that leaves me sitting there, gripping the reins like they’re the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.