Page 136

My fingers curl into fists as I walk, and I don’t realize I’ve stopped until I hear Luna’s footsteps behind me, slower, cautious. She always knows when to follow me. When to test me.
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "If it’s Branwen," I say, my voice lower than I mean for it to be, "then she’s come to finish what she started."
Her chin tilts slightly, her gaze fixed on me, unwavering. "And what did she start?"
A war.
A mistake.
A fucking disaster.
I don’t answer. Not immediately. Instead, I let my power settle, the Dominion rising in my voice like a tangible force as I murmur, "You should hope you never find out."
Luna’s lips press together, her expression unreadable. She hates when I do that. Hates when I try to warn her off, when I treat her like someone to be shielded instead of someone standing beside me, blade drawn.
But this is different. This isn’t Severin’s schemes, not another one of his endless manipulations. This is something older. Something worse.
Luna steps closer. Not touching, but near enough that I feel the weight of her magic pressing against mine, a silent battle neither of us acknowledges. She smells like the battle we just fought, like blood and embers, like the fucking inevitability she refuses to acknowledge.
And then, softly, too softly, she says, "Lucien."
I hate the way my name sounds in her mouth.
Like it belongs to her.
Like it means something.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to look away, to start walking again. "Keep up," I order. "I’m not slowing down."
And I know, without question, that whatever happens next, whatever war is coming, she will not let me fight it alone.
"Why do you hate me so much?"
I don’t stop walking. I don’t let myself. Because if I stop, if I turn to look at her, to acknowledge that she’s waiting for an answer, I might give her one. And that is not something I can afford.
She walks beside me, close enough that I can feel her warmth, a pulse of heat against my skin, against the space where the bond should exist but doesn’t, because I refuse to let it.
Because if I acknowledge it, if I give it a name, it will become real.
She watches me, waiting, demanding something I will not give. I can feel the weight of her gaze on my profile, burning through my composure like she has a right to it.
I inhale slowly, measured, a breath meant to keep my voice even when I finally answer.
"I don’t hate you."
It’s not the answer she wants.
I know that before I even say it.
She lets out a soft laugh, disbelieving, and it grates on my nerves in a way that shouldn’t feel like temptation. "No? Could have fooled me," she murmurs, glancing at me from the corner of her eye, something too knowing in the tilt of her mouth.
I don’t rise to it. I don’t take the bait.
I refuse to.
Instead, I cut a look at her, slow, deliberate. "If I hated you, you’d know it."
It’s meant to be cruel. It should be cruel.