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Hungry.

I stop at the next pillar. Another imperfect carving. The crest etched into its surface is a warped version of Silas’s—too symmetrical, the chaos bled out of it like someone didn’t understand how much madness belongs in his magic. I don't need to check mine. I’ve memorized all of them. But gods, Lucien is behind me, and the air between us is hot with everything he’s not saying.

So I decide to say it with my body.

I lift the hem of my shirt. Slow. Controlled. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’m just cross-referencing marks and not setting the world on fire with a flick of cotton.

The bond crests are tattooed across my skin in their sacred, personal chaos—Silas’s inked near my ribs, Elias’s curling down beneath my heart, Riven’s scarred like it was burned into me by war itself. They all exist in the constellation of my body like stories carved into flesh. Proof of what we’ve survived. Who we belong to.

But I’m not really looking at them. I’m watchinghimwatchme. Lucien stills. I can feel it—not in sound, but inenergy. Like the entire room pauses with him.

He doesn’t breathe. Then, slowly,he does. And when I glance back—just a flicker over my shoulder—I catch him. Eyes locked on my chest, mouth parted slightly. Not in shock.

Inlonging.

And then he does something thatshouldn’truin me. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. Not hard. Not biting. Just—pressed. Like he’s trying to hold something back and it’s slipping through the cracks in him anyway.

And fuck me, thatdoessomething to me.

Lucien Virelius doesn’t lose composure. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’twantwhere others can see it.

Except he is.

And I’m letting him.

No—I’minvitinghim.

I let my fingers skim the crest inked beneath my collarbone, where his would go if he ever gave in. Where itachesto be. He’s already burning.

When I finally lower my shirt, slow and measured, I feel the tension crack in the space between us. Like the shift in gravity when two stars pass too close. He still doesn’t speak. But gods, thewayhe looks at me says everything he won’t. I turn back to the pillar and pretend to study it, even as heat crawls up my spine.

He clears his throat. Loudly. Like that’s going to erase the way his gaze dragged over me like worship and war all at once. Then comes the softthunkof his palm against the pillar beside him, followed by the long, slow exhale of a man trying to remember how to breathe. His body shifts, and I don’t need to look back to know he’s leaning into it now—shoulder pressed to the carved stone, posture forced into something relaxed even though he’s unraveling by the second.

Lucien. Undone. By a glimpse of skin.

Gods.

It’s almost cruel how much I enjoy this.

I keep my expression neutral, lips pressed together as I inspect the wrong crest like it’s the only thing that matters. But I can feel the pull of him behind me. His magic isn’t touching mine, not directly—it wouldn’t dare unless heletit. But it’s circling. Wary. Tight. Like a beast pacing behind a locked gate.

I let the moment hang. Let the silence grow justtenseenough to squeeze. Then I glance back, just enough to catch him out of the corner of my eye. And there he is—trying and failing to look like he didn’t just have a mental collapse over my body.

His jaw is sharp. Set. But the muscle twitches when I meet his gaze.

“Something wrong?” I ask, innocently.

His eyes flick to mine, then drop a fraction—to my mouth.

Dangerous choice.

“No,” he says, voice a shade too low. His fingers tap twice more against the stone beside him, rhythm erratic. “Just... making observations.”

“Observations?”

He nods once, curt. Controlled. Like he’s snapping his own leash back into place.

I take a step toward him. Casual. Deliberate. “You sure you’re alright? You looked like you might combust for a second.”