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He steps closer. “Then it has good taste.”

And that’s the thing with Orin. He doesn’t do lines. He says everything like it’s already a fact—like I’m supposed to understand the weight of his affection just from the way he breathes near me. And I do. I do.

But my mouth still says, “I’m going to say something incredibly cringe in about three seconds and you’re going to take it seriously and I’ll never recover.”

“Try me.”

“I want to bond,” I say in a rush. “Even if it means I start reading ancient poetry out loud in graveyards or—whatever your vibe is. I want it.”

He nods once. No hesitation. No smirk. Just absolute certainty. “Then we bond.”

My stomach flips.

He draws a blade from the inside of his coat. Not the ornate, ceremonial kind. It’s simple. Black-handled. Worn. Like it’s been used before.

“Left hand,” he says quietly.

I lift mine. He takes it without ceremony, holding my wrist steady as he slices across the heel of his own palm, then mine. It stings. Not much. Just enough to remind me this is real. Then he presses the wounds together.

The bond catches instantly.

It’s not violent. Not like with the others. It’s not a rush. It’s a folding. A sinking. A slow, perfect hum that settles under my skin and knows. I feel his magic winding through me like silk drawn over bare nerves. Heavy. Ancient. Patient.

He exhales once, low and rough.

His hand is wrapped around mine, blood sticky between our palms, the bond still hot and new beneath my skin when he lets go—and moves for my pants like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

“We could—” My voice pitches up an octave, which is just the worst. “—we could talk first. Or, you know, like… meditate. About it.”

Orin looks up at me through his lashes as he undoes the first button. “Do you want to meditate, Luna?”

“No,” I breathe, instantly. “Gods, no. Please continue.”

He hums, quiet approval, and lowers himself to his knees.

Oh no.

My brain short-circuits. His fingers skim the hem of my pants, but I can’t look at that because he’s on his knees. Beneath me. Calm and devastating and looking up at me like I’m the altar he’s chosen to desecrate. And I—

I’m absolutely not staring at his mouth.

I’m not.

I’m looking respectfully.

Mostly.

He opens my pants slowly, deliberately. His fingers graze over the fabric just enough to make me forget my own name. And I want to be cool. I want to say something clever or seductive or at least normal, but all that comes out is:

“You—you have really intense kneeling posture.”

His brow lifts slightly. “Kneeling posture.”

“Like, your back’s very straight. That’s good. Good form. Ten out of ten.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just slides his palms over my hips, over the outside of my thighs, outside the fabric still. Teasing. Unrushed. His thumbs stroke small circles as he leans forward, his mouth just there—close enough to kiss my stomach but deliberately not doing it.

“Do you want to slow down?” he asks, low and careful.