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Lucien never does anything halfway. Not his cruelty. Not his power. And certainly not his love. If he wanted me, he would wantallof me. And he would never let go. And here we are now, walking side by side like we haven’t bled for each other in ways we still haven’t named. Like we haven’t both broken things that may never fully heal.

Like we could maybe, possibly, finally... begin again.

If I let him.

Ifhelets me.

It’s dangerous, what he’s doing. This slow unraveling. The compliments that slide under my skin like satin-wrapped blades. The flowers. The walks. The eye contact that lingers just a beat too long. He used to glare at me like I was the ruin of everything. Now he watches me like I’m the answer to a question he’s never let himself ask.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because we’re alreadyfucking. We’ve been fucking. There’s no mystery there, no chase. He’s had me—body, breath, heat, the kinds of sounds I only ever make for him. So why is he still looking at me like he’s starving? Why is he acting like he’s trying toearnsomething now?

What more could he possibly want from me?

The answer curls up like fire in my throat.

Everything.

That’s what he’s asking for. Not sex. Not submission. Not control.

Me.

All of me. The parts that are still healing. The ones that flinch at kindness. The ones that shattered in Branwen’s realm andhaven’t quite pieced themselves together again. He doesn’t say it outright. That’s not Lucien. He’s never needed declarations. He moves like a storm—silent until you’re already soaked and drowning.

I glance at him now, his profile sharp as myth, the curl of his mouth soft enough to undo me. He’s not looking at me. He’s letting me watch. Letting me question. And gods, he knows I will.

“Why now?” I ask, voice low, careful. “Why this… change?”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says.

Simple. Devastating.

I stop walking. The world keeps moving. Leaves scatter in the wind. A crow shrieks in the distance. But I’m still, waiting for the other blade to fall.

“You tried to push me away for months,” I remind him, voice sharper now. “Tried to ruin us. And now you’re picking flowers and pretending it never happened?”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he says. “I was surviving it.”

And there it is.

Not an apology. Not an excuse. Just the truth, cracked and jagged between his teeth.

He turns to face me fully, his expression unreadable but his eyes—gods—his eyes burn with something ancient. Not lust. Not power. Something worse.

Hope.

“I can’t undo what I said,” he murmurs. “What I did. But I can choose differently now.”

“And whatareyou choosing?” I whisper.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Not possessive. Not hungry. Just reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of every word I’ve ever said to him.

“You.”

The word hangs there. Undeniable. Unfixable.

The world stops.