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I glare at his back. Then look at Luna.

“Do youreallytrust that man?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Fair.

I grab Elias’s wrist and yank us both back toward the hedges.

“I’m not done with you, Banana Satan,” I mutter under my breath. “War has only just begun.”

Luna

I feel like I’ve woken up in the wrong version of reality. There’s something off. Not just off—wrong,in the way reality warps when a dream forgets it’s not supposed to be real. It’s in the way Riven keeps checking the perimeter like he expects something to jump out from behind the hedges. In the way Ambrose lingers too long in the kitchen, making tea he doesn’t drink. In the way Caspian touches my shoulder in passing, like he’s making sure I’m still there, like I might vanish between blinks.

And then there’s Silas and Elias—who havealwaysbeen weird, but now their weird is…organized. Coordinated. Tactical. They’re never not watching me. Or Lucien.

BecauseLucienhas gone rogue. He’s… nice.

He asks if I want to walk with him every day now, like we didn’t used to go weeks avoiding each other like the bond was a curse one of us would accidentally trigger. He doesn’t smirk when he says it, either. He doesn’t mock me with words dipped in venom or cold smiles. He justasks. Quiet, simple, and every time he does, I find myself saying yes before my brain can catch up to howstrangeit feels.

Yesterday, he brought me flowers.

Lucien Virelius. Bringer of blood, ruin, andflowers.

And not even dead ones. Fresh. Hand-picked. Arranged in a spiral like he researched bouquet meanings on the back of some ancient death scroll. When he handed them to me, he looked soseriousI thought he was delivering a weapon.

But there was no edge in his voice. No cruelty in the fold of his mouth. Just a single, aching sincerity that felt like a trap dressed up in kindness. And I took them. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because part of mewantedto believe he meant it. That maybe he was allowed to want things now too.

But he also carries a knife. Constantly. Tucked in his back pocket like it’s a secret we’re both pretending not to notice. When I asked him about it and he said, “Old habits.”

I think he meant it. Ihopehe did.

But now Silas is asking me if I’ve “noticed how disturbingly symmetrical Lucien’s face is lately,” and Elias just casually asked if I’ve “made any blood oaths with Banana Satan yet.” Which… is not how I expected breakfast to go.

This morning, I caught Orin watching Lucien from across the gardens with a look ofmurderous curiosity. Which is probably the most dangerous combination of things Orin can feel.

And I know something’s going on. I just can’t figure outwhat.

Because this house has never been quiet, never been still. But this? This feels like every one of them is waiting for a shoe to drop. Only none of us know which shoe. Or when. Or how many laces it’ll take to strangle the whole fucking lot of us when it does.

Lucien knocks on the door to the library before I can spiral further. And there he is again. Beautiful and unreadable and pretending this version of himself hasalwaysexisted. The knife’s on his hip.

He says, “Another walk?”

And I nod. Because I’m not ready to ask the real question.

What’s changed? And what happens when the truth comes for us this time?

He laughs at my joke about Mr. Beans clawing Silas’s nipple ring off like it was a personal vendetta, and not only does Lucienlaugh, he wheezes—wheezes, like his lungs are weak from actual joy.

Which is suspicious. Concerning. Possibly even apocalyptic.

Because Lucien doesn’tlaugh. He doesn't even smile unless it's weaponized. That smirk he perfected like a scalpel, used to slice through me without ever needing a blade. But this—this is a full-bodied, unguarded, breath-stealing laugh. One hand over his mouth like he doesn’t trust it, the other brushing against mine as ifhedoesn’t trust himself.

And it’s not the laugh that disarms me. It’s the way he keeps doing it. Again. And again. Like I’m something soft he wants to keep.

Like he’s listening.