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My heart stutters like a traitor, and I scramble off the bed so fast I nearly trip over my own shame. I lunge toward the bathroom like it’s sanctuary, like tile walls and a sink will save me from the one person I’m not ready to see—will probably never be ready to see again.

But Silas grabs me by the collar like I’m a child and he’s the damn authority on bad decisions. “Nope,” he mutters, grinning like the devil. “You’re not running from her. Not when you’re half-bonded and full-dumb.”

“I will kill you in your sleep,” I whisper.

“Hot,” he says, dragging me backwards like I weigh nothing. “Now smile pretty, Casanova.”

He opens the door without ceremony, without warning me, without giving me a second to breathe.

And there she is.

Luna.

Hair messy like she forgot to care, eyes sharper than any weapon I’ve ever held. She’s standing there in leggings and a hoodie that’s probably mine—gods help me—and she looks at me like she doesn’t regret asking if I was okay. Like she stillwantsto ask it again, just to be sure.

I forget how to speak. Or breathe. Or lie.

Silas claps a hand on my shoulder and says, “He’s been crying, but only in a really masculine way. Very dignified. Lots of sniffles, very few sobs.”

“Silas,” Luna says, voice flat but soft in that way that makes me ache. “Get out.”

Silas’s grin stretches wider. “You got it, princess.” He pats my cheek before he goes, murmuring just loud enough for me to hear, “Don’t cry on her, yeah?”

Then he’s gone, and it’s just her.

Me.

And the bond humming low between us like something unfinished, a song waiting for the next chord—and I don’t know if it’ll end in a crescendo or a collapse. But I can’t run anymore.

Luna

The door clicks shut behind me with the kind of finality that settles in your bones.

Caspian doesn’t move. He’s moves to the far wall, standing with one hand braced against the bookshelf like he needs it to stay upright. His head is bowed, not in surrender but in something quieter—hesitation or dread, I can’t tell. The light in here is dim, stained by the violet cast of Hollow moonlight that filters through the broken window. Shadows cut across his face in uneven angles, carving him into something jagged.

He doesn’t look up when I step farther into the room. Doesn’t greet me with a smirk, or a quip, or even the empty bravado he’s worn like armor for months. He’s a statue, all marble lines and no warmth, and it makes something cold unfurl in the center of my chest.

I say his name, soft enough to break something. “Caspian.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his hand tightens on the wood.

He’s wearing black again—of course he is—but not the kind that makes him gleam like a sin polished to a mirror. This black is flat. Functional. Like he dressed without thinking, without feeling, without a need to be seen. The coat is wrinkled, the buttons mismatched, and his boots are still caked with ash from the battlefield.

I take another step. Still, he doesn’t move.

“I thought you’d hide in the bathroom,” I say, gently teasing, trying to dislodge the weight pressing down on the space between us.

His shoulders shift, barely. “I considered it,” he mutters. “Figured you’d just kick the door in. And I didn’t want to give you that satisfaction.”

His voice is hoarse, raw like something scraped across his throat on the way out. It’s not sultry. Not smooth. It’s not the Caspian who once whispered filth into my ear with a grin sharp enough to cut silk. It’s the man beneath all that—what’s left of him, anyway.

I fold my arms and lean against the closed door. Not blocking his exit. But not moving aside either.

“I’m not here to trap you,” I say. “But I’m not leaving until we finish this.”

He laughs—quiet and bitter, the sound of someone who knows exactly how many pieces they’re in but can’t name a single one. “Finish,” he echoes, like the word is a curse. “Right. Like this is a job to be done.”

“It’s a bond,” I reply evenly. “It’s more than that. You know it is.”