Page 84

“No,” he murmurs. “I’m the consequence.”

And I don’t know how to argue that. Not when the world has already started to rearrange itself around him, like the story’s waiting for him to fall so the next chapter can begin.

“Then fuck the story,” I say.

Silas stops pacing. Elias looks up from where he’s been pretending not to listen. Luna’s eyes find mine, full of too muchknowing.

“I’m not letting you die to fix this,” I tell Ambrose. “And if you try, I’ll follow you in just to drag your cold, arrogant assback.”

And that’s not a promise.

It’s a curse.

Luna

I wake to heat. The kind that blooms low and pulses deep, warm and wicked in a way dreams can’t conjure.

His mouth is already on me.

Tongue sliding up the inside of my thigh, teeth grazing just enough to make my leg twitch. My eyes blink open slowly, the ceiling swimming into view as his hands press down—one on each hip, holding me in place like I might vanish if he lets go.

“You’re late,” I say, voice rough with sleep and amusement.

“You’re naked,” he answers. The edge in his voice is hunger wearing civility like a second skin.

“Keep up, Dalmar. I’m always naked when you’re around.”

He licks me like it’s a science. Like he’s not eating me out—he’s dismantling me. One slow stroke at a time, patient, methodical, almost detached. Except his fingers are trembling where they grip me. Just a little. Like even he’s not immune to this.

My breath catches. He knows exactly where to start—just soft enough to tease, just firm enough to pull sound from me before I’m ready to give it. He takes his time, his tongue circling my clit with maddening precision before dipping down again, tasting, pressing, building.

I shift beneath him, restless, already wet, already aching. He tightens his grip, pushing my hips down harder into the mattress.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice rough against my skin, his breath like sin.

“Then don’t tease.”

But he does.

Gods, he does.

He sucks my clit between his lips and I moan—sharp, high, helpless. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speed up either. He holds me open, tongue working slow figure-eights while his other hand slides lower, fingers slipping into me with obscene ease. I gasp. Arch.

“Fuck—”

He groans against me, and the vibration nearly undoes me. His tongue flicks, circles, drags. His fingers curl, drag out, press back in—steady and slow, drawing slick sounds from me that fill the quiet room like a song he composed.

I come once, too fast. It rips through me, sharp and sudden. I clench around his fingers and he groans again, this time louder, like he likes it too much. Like he gets off on the sound of me falling apart for him.

I reach down, fisting my hand in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him grunt. He pulls back with a wet sound, lips shiny, breathing harder now. His eyes drag up the length of me—lazily, possessively—and he licks his bottom lip like he’s considering going again.

“You going to fuck me,” I pant, “or are you just here to gloat?”

“Spread.”

I arch a brow.

“No ‘please’?”