Page 109

Luna

I’m okay. That’s what I told them. That’s what Elias made sure of when he reset the wreckage of my body like it was nothing more than a misaligned puzzle. Silas’s arm, mended but aching. My ribs, sore but intact. And Ambrose—Ambrose, who shouldn’t even be standing right now, stands at the foot of my bed like he wants to throttle me and carve me open in the same breath.

He’s staring at the wall like if he looks at me, he’ll combust.

I stretch, deliberately casual, even though every muscle thrums like it remembers the impact. “You can stop glaring at the paint, Dalmar. It wasn’t the wall that drove us off a cliff.”

His gaze cuts to me like a blade. That sharp, cool thing he wears like skin, the one that makes you want to lean in even as you bleed.

“You’re sore,” he says flatly.

“So are you,” I throw back, voice lighter than it should be. “We match.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

His jaw ticks, and he looks away again. Like my voice is the thing scraping him raw.

I push up on my elbows, the sheet sliding down my stomach. He doesn’t look, but I know he notices. Ambrose Dalmar is aman who catalogs everything. Files you away in pieces until he can decide how to use you.

Except he can’t use me now.

Because we’re half bound.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stretching deliberately slow. “You didn’t have to do it.”

His silence is louder than any lecture.

“You didn’t,” I say again, meeting his gaze. “You could’ve let me crash. Let me burn.”

“I don’t make a habit of letting people die on my watch.”

I snort. “Bullshit. You don’t make a habit of letting anyone get close enough to die.”

His mouth twists. A smile that isn’t a smile at all. “Congratulations, Luna. You’re the exception.”

There’s venom in it. But something else, too—something hollow and sharp, buried so deep I doubt even he knows where it starts.

I rise, moving toward him with slow, deliberate steps. The space between us feels like a live wire. His posture is perfect, composed, but his fingers twitch once at his side, like he’s imagining what it would feel like to close the distance, to cage me in.

“You’re angry,” I murmur. “Not because of the crash. Because now you’re tied to me, and you didn’t get to choose.”

His gaze snaps to mine, unreadable. “You think I care about choice?”

“You care about control,” I say, voice softer now, slicing closer to the truth. “And I took that from you.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes flick down, a second too long, before snapping back up.

“You didn’t take anything,” he murmurs. “I gave it. Stupidly.”

I step closer, until there’s barely a breath between us. “And now?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. “Now we finish it.”

My pulse spikes. Not from fear. Not from nerves. From the way he says it—like a challenge. Like a dare.

I tilt my chin up, smiling without softness. “You sure, Dalmar? You might not like what you get when you finally fall.”

His laugh is low, bitter. “I never like anything.”