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“It’s alegacy,” I correct. “One day, historians will study my closet and weep.”
He throws a pillow at me. I let it hit me dramatically and fall back onto the bed like I’ve been shot.
Luna laughs again, and I’d die a thousand deaths to hear it again and again. To make her smile with my chaos. My idiocy. Because it’s not really about the clothes.
It never was.
It’s about pulling them closer. Stitch by stitch. Seam by seam.
Luna
The water pours over me, hotter than necessary. It beads along my collarbone, streams between my breasts, slicks down the backs of my knees. I tilt my head, rinse the shampoo from my hair, eyes closed as the last of the lather slips away.
The door opens.
I hear it—not a slam or shuffle, just the subtle creak of old hinges, a shift in air that makes the heat feel suddenly too aware of itself.
I don’t turn.
Elias would’ve announced himself with a muttered complaint. Silas would’ve dropped something. This—this is quiet. Measured.
The door locks.
When I open my eyes, he’s already halfway across the room.
Ambrose. Shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest like he got tired halfway through and decided that was enough. His eyes find mine through the haze, unreadable.
The steam rises between us, thick and slow, clinging to skin and stone. I stay beneath the showerhead, arms loose at my sides, breath steady despite the way my pulse stutters at the base of my throat.
Ambrose shrugs off his shirt.
And that’s when I see them.
Tattoos. Not delicate. Not decorative. Commanding. They arc across his chest in sharp, symmetrical lines, some geometric, some jagged—none of it familiar. Black, with veins of silverglinting under the water-slick light. They curve over his left shoulder, vanish beneath the waistband of his pants, fanning like wings without mercy.
They look old. Older than him. Older than everything.
He reaches for his belt.
Undoes it.
Let’s it drop.
The rest follows. Boots. Trousers. Underwear. A slow, methodical strip, as if there’s no urgency here. No performance. Just intent.
When he steps into the shower, the space changes.
It’s not a touch. Not a word. Just the nearness of him, heat against heat, the way water slides over both of us now without choosing.
His fingers move to my hip—just the barest touch, a quiet warning that the line between restraint and possession is already starting to blur. The water pours down between us, steam curling into every crevice of the tiled walls, and still, he doesn’t speak.
His other hand finds my wrist. Not to stop me. Not to pull. He just holds it, fingers curled around mine, water running over both our hands as if the world wants to witness. His palm is rougher than I expected. Calloused. And when he drags it up my arm, it leaves a trail of heat that the water can’t compete with.
He leans in then—close enough that I feel the brush of his breath against the side of my throat, and my eyes flutter closed. I expect a kiss. A bite. Something sharp.
But Ambrose doesn’t devour.
He studies.