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“You alright there?” I ask, tone light. “You look like you’re about to confess something truly tragic.”

His jaw tightens.

Good.

I step closer—two inches, maybe three—enough to let my magic curl toward him like smoke under a locked door. Not a push. Just areminder.I’m here. Ifeelhim.

“You’ve got that... hunted look in your eye,” I murmur, dragging the words out like silk. “Something on your mind?”

He doesn’t move. But his hand twitches again—faintly. Wipes down his thigh like it has a mind of its own. Again.

Gods, he’sso badat this.

“Is this your version of a compliment?” I ask, softer now. “Because you’re usually more terrifying when you’re trying to get my attention.”

His mouth opens.

Closes.

No words.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. He’s trying. Genuinelytrying. And he’s awful at it. And because I am apparently no better, I can feel the flush creeping up my neck.

Hestillhasn’t looked away. And now that I’m standing in front of him, it’s harder to breathe. Not because I’m afraid. Not because of the gravity of what might be happening here. But because I want to step closer. Just a little more. Just to see what happens if Itouchhim now, when he’s not cold, not cruel—but wide open in a way I don’t think he knows how to be.

And maybe I should be merciful. Maybe I should tease him gently, give him a way out, let him retreat into that armor he wears so well. But that’s not who I am.

So I tilt my head and say, “You know, if this is your idea of seduction... I’m strangely impressed.”

Lucien blinks.

“You’re sweating,” I add, lower now, just for him. “Want me to hold your hand?”

That earns me the sharp, strangled sound of a breath he clearly didn’t mean to release. His face—gods,his face—goes taut, and for one glorious second, I think I’ve broken him.

And then he says—

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Which somehow makes itworse.

I smile, just barely, and step around him with all the grace of someone who absolutely won this round. But I make sure to let my shoulder brush his arm, light enough to feel deliberate. Heavy enough to leave him thinking about it.

Let him sit with that.

Let him stew in the heat of his own undoing.

Let him want me, and not know what to do about it.

He trails behind me like he doesn’t mean to, which is already a lie. Lucien doesn’ttrail. He stalks. He commands. He studies his surroundings with a predator’s discipline. But now? He’s following me like a tether’s been wrapped around his throat, likethe space between us is narrowing with every step and he can’t remember why he should fight it.

I can feel the weight of his gaze. Not overbearing. Not possessive.

Focused.

Deliberate.