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Not visibly. Not enough to make her notice. But something in my chest clenches tight around the idea of her laughing at Silas’s terrible driving, Silas rambling nonsense just to hear her scold him, Elias cracking jokes from the backseat like none of us are two seconds from emotionally combusting.
It’s stupid.
It’sdangerous.
But the image of it—her between us, teeth bared in half-smile, eyes alight with chaos—it makes the ache in my chest shift. Not vanish. Just... settle.
We keep walking, and I know exactly what I’ll do when Silas pulls up in that cursed car.
I’ll open the door for her.
And I’ll ride in the back.
Not because I don’t trust him.
Because I don’t trust myselfwith herin the front seat.
The door groans shut behind us, and the quiet that follows isn’t peace—it’s the kind that comes before a storm.
They’re all already outside.
Ambrose leans against the rail like he’s bored, like he hasn’t already calculated every possible threat on the road ahead. Elias is crouched beside the front tire, flicking pebbles into the grass, like the idea of punctuality offends him on a personal level. And Silas—of course it’sSilas—is twirling the keys around his fingers like a weapon he doesn’t know how to properly use but still insists on wielding.
The car behind them is a fucking beast.
Classic. Black. All gleaming chrome and low growl, rebuilt from something older than most of the vampires that roam the southern courts. Silas didn’t buy it on impulse—heresearchedit. Spent weeks tracking the build, poring over engine diagrams like schematics for war. He didn’t just want a car.
He wantedthis.
And for once, the chaos clown got it right.
They all turn when they hear us. But none of them are looking at me.
They’re looking ather.
And yeah—I’ve seen her in battle. I’ve seen her in blood. I’ve seen her when she’s laughing, and when she’s about to shatter. But this?
This is different. She almost never wears dresses. And when she does, it’s usually because she’s about to manipulate a god or cut someone’s ego in half. But this one…
This one’shers.The one she picked in town with Ambrose, and for once, I can’t even hate him for being the one who helped her find it.
It clings in all the right places. Slides where it should glide. Black and silver and ruthless—elegant without being delicate. She looks like something the night whispered into existence. Dangerous. Divine.
Elias straightens so fast he stumbles back against the hood. “Okay, who gave Luna permission to commit murder by dress?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Silas says, flicking the keys toward him. “She doesn’t need a dress to kill you. That’s just extra credit.”
Ambrose doesn’t speak.
But his eyes? They don’t leave her for a second.
And Ifeelit.
That stupid bond pulling tight in my chest, tightening like it knows it’s already lost.
She glances at me from the corner of her eye, waiting for me to say something. A compliment. A warning. Alie.I don’t give her any of it.
Instead, I reach forward and open the car door for her.