Page 150

A scar named.
His breath hitches. Just slightly.
Then his voice—soft, but absolute: “I’ve loved you since the moment you refused to bow.”
I roll toward him, sheets still wrapped around us, and his eyes—storm-gray threaded with that inhuman red—lock onto mine.
“You’re not a choice,” he murmurs. “You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.”
And in his arms, I let myself mourn—not just Ambrose, but the illusion of what I thought we could be. The cost of wanting. The wreckage of being wanted and discarded in the same breath.
I cry until I don’t have anything left.
Then I breathe.
And Riven is still there.
Unmoved.
Unmoving.
Unrelenting.
Ambrose
I can’t find my damn bike keys. Not in the entryway where I always toss them. Not in the ruin of a living room that looks like a war crime was committed in it. Not on the kitchen counter buried beneath a half-sliced lemon, two knives, and a cup that may or may not be filled with blood. (Silas, probably.)
IknowI left them on the hook. Irememberthe sound. The sharpclinkwhen I hung them after we got back. But the house—if it can even still be called that—has been trashed three times over, and I’ve already circled the place like a muttering lunatic.
I find Riven in the kitchen. He’s not brooding, which is the first suspicious thing. He’s making a sandwich. Turkey, maybe. Or ham. Something carved off something else.
He looks up when I enter, barely flicking his gaze toward me. “You lost something, or just circling like a vulture again?”
“My keys.”
He doesn’t answer. Just spreads mustard like he’s painting a canvas. I stare. Wait. Tap the edge of the counter.
“Well?”
He sighs, lifts his eyes. Gray. Flat. “Lucien’s office.”
Of course. I almost turn without responding, but something stops me—his posture. Not tense. Not angry. Intent.
“You planning on lecturing me?” I ask, already bracing.
“No,” he says, taking a bite. “I’m planning on telling you to fix your shit with Luna.”
I stop. Don’t turn. Let the silence stretch. Let him think I’m ignoring him.
I’m not.
So what? We fucked. It wasn’t supposed tomeananything. Sure, it was a dick move the way I left her—didn’t even look back. But she’ll be fine. She’s always fine.
“She’ll be fine,” I say aloud.
Riven steps around the counter. Slow. Measured. Like he’s not about to press a thumb into a bruise I haven’t let anyone see. He taps his finger against my chest. Once. Hard.
“You made her cry.”