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Her smile deepens, slow and lethal. “Maybe I like watching you struggle with your pride.”

I let the pause stretch between us like pulled thread, almost snapping. “It’s not pride.”

“No?” she asks, finally turning to face me. She stands at an angle, head tilted, arms at her sides like she’s open but not offering. “Then what is it, Lucien?”

I step forward, closing that last inch between us. She doesn’t back away.

“It’s knowing that the moment I touch you,” I murmur, voice dark with truth I didn’t mean to give her, “I won’t be able to stop.”

Her gaze drops, slowly—once. Then returns to mine. Unbothered. Steady.

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

And there it is. The edge. The cliff. Not a demand. Not a plea. Just an open door.

She steps back—not out of reach, but into the shadow of a crooked tree, where the bark gleams wet and dark and the canopy muffles the last of the light. Her hand lifts to the low branch again. She rests it there, like she’s giving me time to decide if I’ll follow her all the way into the dark.

I do.

Because whatever she’s drawing me into—it doesn’t feel like surrender.

It feels like belonging. And that terrifies me more than any war I’ve ever led.

I close the distance between us in three steps. I count them.

One—for the line I swore I wouldn’t cross.

Two—for the vow I made never to touch her again.

And three—for the part of me that’s already hers and has been, from the beginning.

My hand lifts on the second step, fingers curling behind the base of her neck, and I feel her breath catch beneath my palm like a fuse being lit. Not fear. Not surprise. Just recognition. Her skin is warm, pulse steady against the heel of my hand, and for the first time in what feels like years, I steady myselfin her.

Not in memory. Not in control. In this—whatever this is.

Her gaze meets mine just before I lean down, and I catch the flicker of something defiant in it. She knows what this means. That it’s not about softness. It’s not about apology. It’s about surrendering to the thing between us.

My mouth claims hers like I already know the shape of it in memory, like I’ve been waiting years to return to something I never should’ve touched in the first place. Her lips are soft but grounded—Luna doesn’t melt, doesn’t yield. She matches. Her hand finds my hip, anchoring me with nothing but the drag of her fingertips, the heat in her palm, the way she doesn’t push or pull, just stays.

She lets me have the kiss. But she doesn’t give herself away in it.

I deepen it—just a breath, just enough. My other hand slides around her waist, not pulling her closer, but holding her there. Like I need her steady in my arms to keep the rest of the world out.

She makes a sound—low, nearly imperceptible. A shift in breath. A hum in her throat that burns down my spine like a match dragged across bone.

I pull back slowly, deliberately, mouth brushing hers in a final pass that borders on reverent. I don’t let go of her neck. I don’tdrop my eyes. She stays where she is, close enough to feel every ounce of what I haven’t said.

Her lashes lower. Her breath stills.

“You really think that’ll fix it?”

I smile, but there’s nothing soft in it. “No. I know it’ll make it worse.”

Her fingers tighten at my hip.

“And you kissed me anyway,” she says, voice low, but not broken. Never broken.

“I always do the wrong thing first,” I murmur, brushing my thumb against her throat like punctuation.