Page 9

And if I don’t get this rot out of me soon, I won’t survive what she’s building.
I pull my hand back, flex it once, watching the blood bead along the seam of my palm. Orin watches too but says nothing. He already knows I’m unraveling. Already knows I’m pretending I’m not.
And that’s the worst part.
Not that I’m falling apart.
That they can all fuckingsee it.
She stops.
Just ahead, at the steps of the old cathedral, Luna freezes mid-step like something invisible has brushed the back of her neck. It’s not Branwen she’s reacting to—I would feel that. No, this is something else. Something about the air. The stone. Maybe the way the shadows don’t stretch the way they should. She turns, slow and deliberate, scanning the group behind her.
And then she looks at me.
I try to straighten, to lock everything down behind the armor I’ve worn for centuries. But I’m caught mid-shift. My spine not fully raised, my expression a shade too open. And Luna—of course Luna—catches it. Her eyes narrow slightly. Not suspicious. Curious. Like she’s noticed a crack in glass and can’t help but press her finger to it.
She walks back toward me.
Every step she takes does something to the stone beneath her. The ground doesn’t just accept her presence—it adapts. The moss pulls back. The air stirs. The old academy seems torecognize her as both threat and heir. And still, she moves like nothing here could ever hurt her.
Gods, I wish she was wrong about that.
She stops a pace from me. Too close. Always too close. I don’t move.
Her hand hovers mid-air, inches from my chest, frozen in the act of reaching out. Her brows knit, just slightly. She’s piecing it together, and I don’t want her to. Gods, I don’t want her to see me like this. Pulled. Shaking. Bound.
I try to speak, to force something out—anything. A word. A warning. Even just her name. But the moment my throat flexes, nothing comes. The words lodge somewhere behind my teeth, clawing to get out, but Branwen's power seals my mouth shut with a cruel precision that feels too intimate to be accidental. There’s no physical force—no hand, no pressure. Just a command whispered into my bones from a woman who should be long dead but isn’t. It clamps around my voice like a collar and locks it down from the inside.
It’s not just power. It’s humiliation.
Panic rises—sharp and immediate, not the kind I can reason with or command into submission. It spreads like ice through my veins, cold and sharp, and I know—I know—I look like I’m unraveling. My jaw is clenched, my throat refuses to open, and the bond pulses with Branwen’s sick pleasure, her rage humming just beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. I want to curse. I want to move. I want torun. But all I can do is stand there, locked in place while Luna watches me die in slow, incremental inches.
And she’s still reaching for me.
Her hand hovers in the air between us—hesitant but not afraid. That’s the part that undoes me. The lack of fear. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. She looks at me like I’m somethingshecould steady if I’d just let her touch me. And maybe she could.Maybe one brush of her fingers against my skin would be enough to sever this sickness Branwen left in me. But I can’t let her do that. I can’t let her be the one who saves me. Not here. Not now. Not when I don’t even have the dignity of language.
Blood drips from my nose. I don’t feel it until Luna’s eyes narrow and she says my name again—softly, carefully. “Lucien… your nose is bleeding.”
My hand lifts reflexively. Wet. Warm. Red.
Shit.
I didn’t even feel it start. Just pressure. Just static. But now it’s dripping down my lip, and I can’t hide it. Her eyes sharpen, not afraid, but alert.
The moment she speaks, the bond spasms.
It doesn’t just pull. It yanks. Hard. Brutal. A full-body lurch that nearly tears me forward like I’ve been tethered to something massive and unseen. My head jerks back, not of my own accord, but hers. My spine arches slightly, and I have to plant my feet hard into the stone beneath us just to keep from being dragged like a marionette toward a mouth I escaped centuries ago.
And through it all, she’s still looking at me like I’m more puzzle than threat. Like I’m something she couldfix.
Gods, I want to let her.
Even now, with Branwen trying to claw me back through the bond and my body turning against itself, I want to grab Luna’s wrist and anchor myself to whatever the hell she is. Let her burn the sickness out of me. Let herseethe thing I buried. Let hertouchwhat I’ve never let anyone near. But if she touches me—if she reaches—Branwen will feel it.
And she will tear me apart.
My chest aches from the effort of staying still. From resisting. From being silent when everything in me wants to beg.