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My fingers start moving again, tracing slow, lazy patterns across her skin, magic still humming between us, pulling her deeper into that heavy, safe space I can create for her even when everything else is coming apart.

Her breath has evened out against my throat, like she’s drifting—but I know better. She’s quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that comes before the ground drops out beneath you. I can feel itin the way her fingers curl against my ribs, the subtle, restless movement in her shoulders like she’s fighting sleep and her own head at the same time.

“None of us want you to die, Moon.”

Her breath hitches faintly at that, and I press my lips to the crown of her head like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it doesn’t feel like swallowing glass.

“Even Ambrose,” I continue, voice a little rougher now, like the words scrape on their way out. “The cold bastard took a steering shaft through his fucking chest just to keep you alive.”

My fingers slide lower, tracing circles against her spine, grounding both of us.

“We’re not good men,” I murmur into her hair. “We’re Sins. Selfish, dangerous, stupid. But none of us are gonna let you go down like that.”

There’s a pause—a long, heavy beat—and then her voice, soft and small, slips into the dark.

“What if it’s not anyone else?” she whispers, her breath warm against my throat. “What if it’s me?”

That sinks sharp into my ribs, like she reached inside me and yanked something loose. She pulls back just enough to tilt her face up toward mine, and her eyes are heavy but sharp, clearer now despite the haze I’ve been feeding her.

“What if I can’t stop it?” she says quietly. “What if what’s inside me is too much?”

Her fingers twitch against my chest like she wants to claw something out of herself. “What if it kills me anyway?”

I drag in a breath through my teeth, keep my arm tight around her waist because if I let go now, she’s going to spiral straight through the floor.

The smart thing—the cruel thing—would be to lie. To make some snarky, cutting joke, tell her she’s dramatic, tell her she’ll be fine because she’s ours and that’s how the story goes.

But I don’t.

Because I know what it feels like—to have something inside you that doesn’t stop eating, doesn’t stop growing, until there’s nothing left of who you used to be. Instead, I reach up, fingers curling under her chin until she has to look at me.

“That’s the thing, Moon,” I murmur, voice low and dark and honest in a way I hate. “You’re too much. You always have been.”

My thumb brushes across her jaw, soft despite everything inside me fraying to pieces.

“But that’s why you survive. That’s why you’ll survive this.”

Her throat works, eyes flicking across my face like she’s searching for something—anything—to hold onto.

“And if you can’t stop it,” I add, voice dipping sharper, dragging my mouth close to her ear, “then we’ll stop it for you. We’ll tear this world apart and put it back together if that’s what it takes.”

She shudders against me, and I know she’s still scared. I know it’s not enough.

So, because I’m me and I don’t know how else to fix the crack running straight through her chest, I tack on—

“And if the power inside you kills you, sweetheart…” I pause, letting my lips ghost over the shell of her ear. “At least you’ll go out the hottest girl to ever wipe out a bloodline.”

She snorts before she can stop herself, and it’s soft, reluctant, but it’s there. Her head drops back against my chest, a sharp exhale escaping her.

I drag my thumb lazily over the curve of her shoulder, still tracing her like I’m mapping something I already know by heart, and when I speak, my voice is soft but slanted, curling around her like a vice.

“You’re Luna Dain now,” I murmur, my breath catching against her hair like I can’t help it. “You can stop time itself, sweetheart. There’s no fucking way you’re dying.”

It slips out like it’s obvious, like I’m not handing her the softest truth I’ve got tucked under all the sarcasm and laziness.

She snorts into my chest, a sharp huff against my skin, then shifts just enough to tilt her face toward me, her eyes half-lidded and dangerous. “Why do you do that?”

Her voice is quiet, but it cuts clean.